Legacy
by Mistress Of The Macabre
Summary: Four friends. Four criminals. Four people who are ungrateful to be alive. Four people who must be tested, pushed to the absolute limit. This is it, Jigsaw's Legacy.
1. Three become four

**September 14****th****, 1997-Three become four**

**Shit happens.**

It was their motto, and Ray, for the life of him, couldn't remember which one of them started saying it first. Had it been Kael 'Kazza' Simons? It WAS the sort of thing he would come up with. Or had it been Desiree 'Dizzy' McMinn? She was also likely to think of something like that.

But, unlikely though it was, it COULD have been Melanie 'Mal' Dwyer. She was quiet, yes, but she was also smart. A lot smarter than Ray, or Kazza.

But why was Ray even worrying about WHO made it up?

It didn't matter. What mattered was that they believed it, believed it whole-heartedly, for it was their motto.

For anyone else who did not believe, Kazza and the others MADE them believe-in many varied ways.

Good old Kazza, he was a great guy. But he often had problems with his temper, Ray knew. He remembered one incident when they were just kids, in fourth or fifth grade, Ray couldn't remember, and Kazza had wanted to play the flute, but the music teacher adamantly refused, saying that he had to 'develop' his musical skills some more. Well, Kazza saw right through that old crone's lies, and he lost his temper.

Kazza was expelled for cracking a big old guitar over his teachers' head.

Dizzy took a different approach to dealing with her anger. When the blow would first land, she would simply smile at you politely and walk away. But she, more than often, had one or two feral plans hatching in her mind, ready to make those who had wronged her pay most dearly.

In high school, when she was in the tenth grade, someone, (presumably, another girl) called her a 'filthy whore.'

The day after, the girl who had offended Dizzy was expelled for sleeping with her History teacher, of which Ray was sure Dizzy still had 'photographic evidence'.

Mal was probably the calmest of them all, taking longer than the others to take her revenge. Mal was a planner. She loved to plan, and she did it well. Ray remembered one time, quite clearly, when she had been teased horribly, when she was in only third grade! Well, the teasing went for another month or two before anything particularly nasty happened. But on one particular day, Ray couldn't remember which, all the nasty bitches hadn't turned up to school one day. The teacher had rung up their parents and asked them why weren't they at school?

The answer had been because nearly all of them were suffering from severe food poisoning. Two of those girls had succumbed to Death's loving embrace, and everything cleared up for Mal.

That was the first time any of them had ever killed, Ray thought, scratching his chin idly. Of course, it HADN'T been intentional, so Mal wasn't a murderer.

Yet.

Ray smiled. It had been ten years since the incident with the nasty bitch and the History teacher. He and his friends had all changed since then. Now they ALL could be classified as 'murderers', although Kazza had been the only one caught so far.

He was due to get out of jail soon, Ray thought, fumbling through his pockets. Yes, yes he was. Parole or some shit. And when he gets out...that is when the fun REALLY begins!

Ray grinned and found what he was looking for. A matchbox, full to the brim of his most beloved. He took one and struck it against the side of the box, seeing the flame flicker into life.

Yes, the fun was only just beginning.

**XxX**

Kael Simons, a handsome man of twenty-four, was perched on the edge of his seat, waiting for his verdict.

Today was the day, Kael mused to himself, today is the day when I see if I get my parole.

The person opposite Kael was a burly man, of about fifty-eight years of age, and he was frowning down upon a piece of paper with Kael's information on it. His hand hovered above the stamp, which was currently doused in red ink, ready to deny Kael his freedom.

You see, Kael Simons had been in jail for about five years, accused of manslaughter and possibly cold-blooded murder. He had been lucky to escape with manslaughter, but the judge, a harsh-faced woman, demanded he bide his time in prison nevertheless; because she had deemed him 'an enormous threat to society.'

So it was perfectly clear why the officer opposite Kael was not eager to set him free. The officer was not stupid. He knew EXACTLY where Kael would go-back to those freaky friends of his, the 'Ratbags.'

Who knew what hideous crimes they would commit together?

"Mr. Simons." The officer leaned forward in his chair, his expression stern, mingling with borderline disgust.

"Yes, sir?"

"Would you say you have been rehabilitated from your, uh, criminal ways?"

Kael frowned. He had already been asked this question twice before, and every time had had answered 'yes', he had been denied parole. And he didn't believe in that 'third time lucky' bullshit.

"Rehabilitated..." he now murmured. "What exactly do you mean by that, sir?"

The officer looked surprised. "Have you learnt anything during your time here, Mr. Simons?" He tried again.

Kael sniffed loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose as he did so. "I'm not stupid, officer. Every time I say 'yes, yes, I've been rehabilitated,' you deny me my parole anyway. To answer your question, yes, I have learnt some things here in prison. But are the things you want to hear? Somehow, I don't think so." He got up to leave, pissed off that it would be another year before he could apply to see his mates, Ray, Dizzy, and Mal again.

The officer was startled, a first for him. "Mr. Simons, sit back down!" he barked. Kael slid back into his chair, scowling. "What exactly HAVE you learnt here? I don't care whether you think it's what I want to hear or not, just tell me." He waved a hand airily. Truthfully, he didn't want to do this. He just wanted for this to be over, so he could be shot of Kael Simons. He may outwardly act as a 'nice guy', but he had heard thing about Kael Simons, things that most people shouldn't have to hear. And besides, he was a prisoner!

Kael sighed. "I've learnt that what I did, how I've been acting for...hell, most of my life, was absolutely pointless. I've been a dickhead, and I'm not afraid to admit it." The officer looked as though he was about to interrupt, so Kael held his hand up. "Let me finish, officer. I know my chances at getting parole are thin, too fucking thin, really, but you asked, so hear me out, please."

The officer nodded wearily, already wanting this over. "I was more or less born into this world thinking I was the King, and everyone else was rat shit. I know that now, and when I look back on my life, and mind you, I've had a lot of time to do that, I feel disgusted. I feel disgusted at how I was and how I treated most people..." The lies came quick and easy for Kael; he was used to it. "I got bashed a lot when I first came here, and, oddly enough, it made me think about my life and what I've done." That bit, at least, was true. Kael HAD been beaten up a fair few times. That never happened these days, though-he was one of the 'bashers', actually.

"And...I feel like absolute shit about what I've done. I want to get out there, out with all those people, and I want to apologize. I want to get a job, and learn to be a respectable man again." Was he going overboard with the lies? He thought not. The officer seemed to have swallowed every last one of his lies, and, shit, he looked like he was about to cry!

"That's the best defence I've got, officer. Now just get on with it and deny me my parole again, and I can go back to...Hell." Once again, he got up to leave; making sure his expression was one of intense pain at the thought of returning to that shithole.

"Sit down!" The officer practically screamed. Kael, surprised, dropped back into his seat without complaint. The officer stared hard into Kael's face, as if trying to determine where the lies lay. Kael stared back, appearing frightened. "Fuck..." the officer finally said. He tore his gaze away from Kael's, and moved his hand away from the stamp. Kael's heart leapt, though he kept his expression worried. The officer looked down at Kael's paper, and he frowned. "Fuck..." he said again.

"Sir?" Kael asked nervously. The officer ignored him. Kael tried again, to no success. "Sir?"

Again, no answer. Kael shrugged and looked out the window, at his inmates, whom would be staying here, in this shithole.

"Fuck this," the officer said suddenly, picking up Kael's paper and screwing it into a ball. Kael watched him with wide eyes, hardly daring to believe this. The man tossed the ball into an empty bin, and, upon meeting Kael's eyes, said tonelessly: "Right, Simons, you're good to go."

"I can go?" Kael asked weakly. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," the other man replied. "Now, get the hell out of here, before I change my mind!"

Kael was out of the room and back in his cell, only to retrieve his few belongings in a matter of seconds. A guard scrutinized him suspiciously. "Going somewhere, are we?" he asked.

"Yeah," Kael replied. "I'm blowing this joint."

**XxX**

Desiree had a plan, one she would only reveal to Ray, their leader of sorts, when Kazza was out of jail. That wouldn't be long, she thought. Not long at all. Good old Kazza knew how to bullshit his way out of anything, something Desiree wished desperately she could do-she wouldn't get in half the trouble she did if she knew how to bullshit properly.

"Miss?"

Desiree looked up, and smiled at the newcomer- a young man, barely older than nineteen, she thought, with fashionably messy hair and a ready smile which was somewhat nervous.

"What can I do for you, spring chicken?" She asked, hearing the double meaning in her words. That was not out of the ordinary here-Desiree was, after all, working in a strip club/brothel, and was dressed for it as well, wearing a black dress that seemed harmless at first, but at the back, it was mere fishnet-something that would have surely caught the young man's attention here.

The man was nervous-he was new to this, of this Desiree was certain. But it would be okay. She would show him how to have a good time, all the while wishing for Kazza to get out of jail.

"I, uh..."

Desiree cupped his face in her hands, which were notoriously soft. "It's okay to be nervous," she whispered. Standing up, she somehow managed to make her lips trace all over his neck, leaving smudges of bright red lipstick. The man shuddered, though not in distaste. "There's a first time for everybody."

"H-how much?" He stuttered.

Desiree smiled. "Oh, six-fifty, honey. Since it's your first time, I'll give you half price." She took his trembling hand in her own, and led him into a room laced with silk. There were no other occupants, and Desiree quickly locked the door behind her, so they would not be interrupted.

**XxX**

The shadows dancing around Melanie Dwyer's room did nothing to soothe her frantic heart, her wild gasps, as she shot straight up in her bed, her face drenched in sweat, majority of her hair plastered to her face.

She had had another nightmare, she realized, as the final, horrific images from her nightmare faded away, to reveal her bedroom-her perfectly ordinary, if somewhat boring, bedroom.

The woman, in her early thirties, sighed heavily and ran her fingers through her hair. She would have to resort to taking a sleeping pill before bed-the nightmares had been bothering her for about three weeks now. She supposed it was because Kazza was going to finally get his parole soon-until he was here, Ray had said that they were not to do anything TOO inconspicuous. Apparently he and Dizzy were hatching a plan.

Melanie slipped out of bed, planning on getting herself a warm milk. Warm milk always calmed her down, without fail. To ensure that no more nightmares would occur, Melanie supposed she would take a sleeping pill with the milk, just to be safe.

She exited her bedroom, flipping on the hallway light as she did so, blinking rapidly to adjust to the abrupt change in lighting. Once that was done, she made her way into the kitchen, turning on yet more lights-it was silly, of course it was, but at the present, being in the dark would only speed her heart up some more. If the lights were on, if she could see, then she could be sure that no remnants of her nightmare would pursue her.

She opened her fridge, poured herself a glass of milk, and placed it into the microwave. While her milk was being heated, Melanie fished around in a cupboard, looking for her sleeping pills. Upon finding the box, she discovered it was empty. "Fuck," she moaned, throwing the box in the bin. Without waiting for the bell to go off on her microwave, she yanked the door open and gulped at the hot milk, burning the back of her throat slightly. She began to cough and splutter, dropping the mug on the floor, which promptly shattered.

Ugh. Melanie felt like shit, and more than likely looked it, too. She got to her knees, sweeping the broken mug into her cupped hands, placing the remnants into the bin.

God. She wished Ray would ring, and tell her that Kazza was out of prison! She hated not doing anything!

Sighing heavily, Melanie trudged downstairs, flipping on lights as she went. She needed something to do, and doing what she did best-toxic botany-seemed like a good place to start.

As she entered her basement, she turned on yet another light.

**XxX**

Ray was happy, no, MORE than happy. While his friends were doing what they did best (fucking and planning), he had received a phone call, from the very person he'd been hoping to hear from.

Kazza.

Kazza was out of jail, on his parole!

Ray grinned. Now, at last, the fun could start. He picked up his phone and punched in the numbers he'd been dialling since sixth grade.

**XxX**

The phone rang, and Melanie, jittery, started and let out a small yelp, looking around wildly before realizing it was the phone, and not an intruder. Nevertheless, before she went upstairs, she snatched at a knife and hid it into her pocket, the fingers of her left hand curled around the handle tightly.

"Hello?"

Melanie's voice sounded faint, not with fear, but with eagerness. Almost as if she was EAGER for a robber to be present.

In a way, she was. Her knife was coated with a poison, one so strong; it would feel as though you were burning alive, should any of it get into your bloodstream. It was a new poison, one that Melanie had discovered herself, and she was eager to try it out.

"Mal? That you?" The voice on the other end was unmistakeable. It was Ray!

But of course it was. Seldom did people ever ring her; she was a scientist, and scientists are rarely at home to answer such calls.

"It's me, Ray. What's going on?"

"You're not going to fucking _believe _this," Ray said, and it sounded as though he was smiling, wherever he was. Melanie waited patiently; it was not rare for Ray to have one too many drinks-she suspected that he was drunk. She could almost SMELL the alcohol on him! "Guess who just got his parole?"

Melanie gasped. "Kazza? Are you fucking KIDDING me?"

"Nah, I can't bullshit nearly as well as Kazza can. And besides, since when have I ever lied to you, Mal?"

"Never," Melanie breathed. "But, _Jesus, _Ray, I just can't believe it!"

"You better start believing, babe. Get dressed and meet me at the Hideout in five. Okay?"

He hung up before Melanie could say anything else.

**XxX**

Desiree was just accepting the young man's money when the phone rang. She apologized profusely, saying that she needed to answer it. The young man shrugged and walked away, no longer nervous.

"Hello?"

"Dizzy? That you, babe?"

It was Ray. Of course it was. But why was he ringing here? He was above using brothels, apparently. Unless-

"Yeah, it's me. Is that you, Ray?"

"Sure is, babe. Guess who just got out on parole?"

Desiree's reaction was remarkably close to Melanie's. She swore and gasped and then finally asked if Ray was joking. He wasn't known for bullshitting, but he WAS known to play the odd practical joke here and there.

Ray assured Desiree that no, he WASN'T bullshitting, that it was all true. There were more screams of delight from Desiree, drawing a few confused looks. She ignored them.

"Say, babe, can you meet everyone at the Hideout? Kazza's gonna be there, too."

Desiree assured Ray that she could, that she was on break anyway, and that she'd apologize to her boss later. Ray chuckled.

"Honey, you won't be going back to your job. Kazza and I, we've got a plan."


	2. The Plan and the Promise

**September 14****th****, 1997-The Plan and the Promise.**

"Sorry, but I've got to go."

"Desiree!"

Desiree looked back, to see her very pissed off boss glaring at her. She was only a few years older than Desiree, but she appeared at least three times her age. "Boss?" She asked nervously.

Darcy Middleton marched up to Desiree McMinn and poked her in the belly with one withered, powdery finger, tipped with a nail notoriously sharpened to a point. Desiree winced; the nails had sunk deep into the flesh of her belly, and she hated it. "Where do you think you're going?" Darcy demanded angrily.

Desiree looked pained. "I've...I've had enough! I'm quitting!" She hope desperately that her boss wouldn't hear the faint note of fear-yes, Desiree was afraid of her boss, hopelessly so.

"What?" Darcy asked, more shocked than angry. Desiree took a swift step back, and shouted at her boss angrily:

"I've had it! I can't do this anymore! So, I quit!"

"What did you say to me?" Darcy asked, her voice soft, but deadly. Her eyes narrowed.

"God, are you DEAF? I SAID I'M QUITTING! And there isn't a single thing you can do about it!"

And with that, Desiree McMinn marched away, away from her, away from her job, away from what she did best.

**XxX**

Melanie Dwyer had no idea HOW exactly Kazza had managed to bullshit his way out this time-he'd been locked up for murdering his cousin-a snotty, incredibly up-himself man of eighteen, who thought he was King and everyone else was a pile of rat shit.

Somehow, miraculously, Kazza had gotten off on manslaughter-the clever bastard!

And now he was free. The fun could start. People could begin to die, all those who didn't believe that **shit happens. **

Yes, she thought, as she hurriedly changed into a pair of slack and a white blouse, now the fun can begin.

**XxX**

Kael walked next to Ray, grinning from ear to ear. He couldn't believe it; he just couldn't BELIEVE it, that he was FREE!

How nice the air felt on his face, cool but refreshing, and how soft the grass was, oh, how he had missed such things while in prison!

Ray chuckled. "You look like a little kid, Kazza."

Kael turned to him, still grinning. "You know what, Ray? I FEEL like a little fucking kid-shit, how everything's just coming back to me now!" He sighed happily. "Shit, it feels good to be free."

"I hear you, man. I hear you."

"The Hideout still going strong?" Kael now asked, looking towards the corner of bush he and his friends had hung out when they were kids.

"Absolutely," Ray replied.

Unbeknownst to the two young men, a figure, clad in robes of black and deep red, was watching them, not ten feet away, safely hidden in the shadows of the night. It made no noise, and moved as little as possible, head turned in the direction of the two men, and, had the eyes been visible, they would have been staring intently at them.

"How've Dizzy and Mal been?" Kael asked suddenly. Ray considered.

"Well, you know Dizzy; she's doing what she does best."

"Fucking," Kael said matter-of-factly.

"Yeah."

"How about Mal? She hasn't cottoned onto Dizzy's bad habits, has she?"

Ray laughed. "Shit, no! That smart little bitch is working on making a new poison, or some shit. She's been wanting to test it out, apparently."

The figure shifted suddenly, reaching into a deep pocket. Out came a notepad, and a pencil. The figure knelt down on the ground, still making no noise, and began to write.

Kael was amazed. "She sure is a smart bitch. I envy her."

Ray chuckled. "Don't we all, Kazza." He stopped for a moment, squinting into the darkness. Kael, surprised, also stopped, and, when Ray did not answer to his anxious demands, tugged on his arm angrily. Ray's arm jerked back. "Fuck! What's your problem, Kazza?"

Kael took two steps backwards, holding his hands up in a sign of surrender. "You scared the shit out of me, Ray," he answered. "What's the matter?"

"I thought I saw Dizzy and Mal," Ray said. "But fuck, I can't see in this dark. I guess I'm seeing things."

"Old age catching up to you, old buddy!"

Both Kael and Ray turned, surprised to see Desiree skip merrily towards the two of them, wearing something slightly less revealing than what she normally would have worn-but still not great, a fact the hooded figure took note of, scribbling feverishly on the notepad, having already filled three pages.

"Dizzy!" Kael roared, running up to her and embracing her tightly. "How the HELL have you been, sweetheart?"

Desiree laughed and allowed Kael to swing her around in a circle. "I've been great!"

"Too much information, Dizzy," Ray commented. The three of them laughed heartily.

"I hope I haven't missed much!" Melanie shouted, appearing seemingly out of nowhere and wrapping her arms around Kael.

"You haven't missed anything, babe," Kael chuckled, kissing Melanie on the cheek. "God, I hear you've gotten even smarter! Is that even possible, Mal?"

"Ray's exaggerating," Melanie said, rolling her eyes.

"Somehow, I kind of doubt that," Kael said, winking at her.

"Okay, okay! Enough with the theatrics already!" Ray shouted. "I got you all here because I have a plan!"

The figure hidden in the shadows tucked their notepad back into the pocket and resumes its solitary position, tucked safely behind a tree, and watching the four friends.

"Don't fucking shout, Ray!" Desiree hissed. "Someone could be listening!"

The figure shifted their weight slightly. As they do so, the moon creeps out from behind a cloud, and the figures face is temporarily visible-though there was no human face under the hood. The face of an enraged boar glared at the four, before pulling the hood down even lower-so much so that even if the moo should come out again, the pig mask would not be visible.

"Sorry."

"Now, what's this plan, Raymond?"

"DON'T CALL ME RAYMOND!"

"Sorry," Desiree said sulkily, moving away from Ray, and closer to the figure.

Ray took a few deep breaths, calming himself down. "Sorry, Dizzy."

"That's alright, Ray. But the plan-"

"-Is this." He gestured to all of them to form a circle around him, to maintain the secrecy. The figure moved closer, in an attempt to hear what Ray was going to say.

"Right, guys. Here's the plan..."

Everybody, including the figure, moved closer. Ray decided he'd start with Kael. "Kazza, you remember when you got that old bitch with the guitar?" Kael nodded. "Well, I got an idea, I mean, if you still want to play the flute..."

"Thanks for the thought, Ray, but-"

"Shut up! Let me finish," Ray growled, agitated. He may not be as aggressive as Kael, but he scared most people, nevertheless. And, as much as his friends didn't want to admit it, he scared them as well.

Ray was bigger them all, and stronger, and he was smart. Not as smart as Melanie, but still smart.

And the fact that he played with fire didn't do much for him, either.

"There's this chick, I think her name's Selena Mason, she is the best flutist in the country. And, Kazza, if you want to be as good as her, all you need to do is rock up to her place with a knife and a tape recorder." Ray's eyes were gleaming, as he processed Kael's expression, which went from scared to shocked, and then, finally, sly.

He smiled.

Ray pressed on: "And you told me that that officer wanted you to make yourself a good, honest man, yeah? Well, if you become a modern Mozart, that's one way to do it. You'll be rich, Kazza, and people will adore you instead of fearing you. Don't you want it, Kazza? Don't you?"

"I do," Kael answered. Then he grinned. "This is going to be the easiest money. God. It's almost too easy, really."

"And that's the beauty of it, Kazza. Think about it. By this time tomorrow, you could be bathing in money, Kazza!"

"YES!" Kael shouted. Desiree and Melanie were looking slightly confused, probably wondering what this had to do with them. Ray decided he may as well tell them.

"Dizzy. Mal. Us three, we've had relatively good lives, haven't we? But Kazza's has been shit."

"That's true," Melanie murmured. Desiree nodded.

"And we need to help him get his life back on track."

"But how?" Desiree wondered. Ray sighed. Desiree wasn't the brightest spark out there.

"If we get the spotlight off of Kazza, everything will fall into place. I guarantee it. Mal, I heard you wanted a test subject for your new concoction." Melanie nodded. "Well, Mal, I can get you that. If you promise to help Kazza, I'll get you a test subject, two if you like, fuck; I'll get as many as you need!"

The figure began to write once more.

"Alright..." Melanie said slowly. "I'll try and help, Ray. But what can I do?"

Ray puffed his chest out importantly. "All you need to do is stick a couple of fags with your new poison, and leave the bodies in different places; a body each night. Psyche the cops out." Melanie nodded. She liked the sound of this idea. It was easy, it sounded fun, and better yet, she was unlikely to be caught. Of course she would do it.

"And what can I do?" Desiree asked desperately. Ray turned to her with a smile.

"Get a new habit," he replied. Desiree scowled, and Kael and Melanie guffawed laughter. "No, I mean it, Dizzy," Ray said, protesting. He reached into the bush behind him, and he pulled put two knives; one, a meat cleaver, which he handed to Desiree, and the other, a machete, which he handed to Kael.

Desiree looked at her cleaver with something close to reverence. She knew what Ray was insinuating-that she murder instead of fuck. Of course she would murder-but she could not give up what she did best-it gave her a sense of power, and she hated to lose it. Besides, if Melanie could balance out the two things she loved doing most, why couldn't Desiree?

Ray saw the expressions on his friend faces, and he smiled. "Not that I don't trust you, guys," he began. Desiree looked up from her meat cleaver, surprised. Kael stopped examining his machete and gazed at his friend intensely. Melanie, having nothing to look up from, simply continued to watch Ray, as she had done the entire time. "But I think we ought to, uh, do something, that shows that we've promised, and we'll stick to it." He smiled awkwardly. "Make sense, guys?"

"You mean like Blood Brothers or something, right?" Desiree asked. Ray nodded vigorously.

"That's exactly what I mean, Dizzy. A pact."

"Let's do it now," Kael said suddenly. He pointed to his machete. "We've got the gear, so what are we waiting for?"

Everyone agreed, Melanie somewhat reluctantly, to pull their sleeves on their left arm up (none of them were left-handed-Ray was ambidextrous) and for Kael to mark them all. Kael made a slit in his forearm, big enough for Desiree to squirm, but not large enough for massive blood loss. Kael winced as he was cutting his arm open, but no noise escaped from him, and Melanie suspected that he was gritting his teeth.

Melanie went next. The incision Kael made in her arm was slightly larger than his own, and the vicious sting of it made her whimper a little. "It's okay, Mal, it's okay," Kael murmured, passing his knife to Ray, who sliced his arm open, and then Desiree's, who practically screamed. Ray felt like slapping the stupid bitch.

Kael and Melanie wrapped their arms together, the wounds pressing together. It was this act that made Kael whimper a little himself; the sores were tender, and to press them against something foreign...well, that was painful, very much so. Melanie tried to pull away, but Kael held her tight, feeling their blood intermingle.

While Kael and Melanie were making their oath, Ray and Desiree were making their own, Desiree sobbing like a child, blood dripping slowly down her arm. Then the act was repeated, this time with Desiree paired with Melanie, and Ray with Kael.

The act was repeated again, and again, until everyone had mingled blood with everybody else. "I promise," Kael said solemnly. "I promise to get my life back on track."

"I promise to help you get there, Kazza," Melanie said softly.

"I promise, old buddy," Ray whispered.

"I promise," Desiree murmured.

Then the four friends embraced each other, in a confusing group-hug. "We promise," they all said softly. "We promise."

The figure in the red-and-black robes moved away, eager to report to their master. They had four new people to test-four more to play a 'game.'

As the sky began to get lighter, the friends all went to go their own ways:

Ray was going to get Mal some test subjects for her new creation.

Desiree was going to see if she could adapt to a new habit.

Melanie was going to do some testing, and then, hopefully, some killing.

And Kael? Kael was going out to hunt, hunt the girl who was so good at what he was not-yet.


	3. Selena Mason

**September 15****th****, 1997-Selena Mason. **

Now that that was done, Kael Simons knew exactly what he had to do. He had to find Selena Mason, record every last one of her songs, kill her, steal her flute, and then...begin to get his life back on track.

The only problem was, he hadn't the faintest idea where Selena Mason might be.

Of course, the pain in his arm certainly wasn't helping his case at all-but he knew why Ray wanted to do something like that. He was into all the promises sort of shit-though Kael didn't blame him, no, not in the slightest. Poor Ray hadn't had much of a childhood-the meaning of 'I promise' meant absolutely nothing to him-he had been stolen from, beaten on numerous occasions...

Kael sighed. He was happy that Ray and the others had been so nice to him, even cutting their arms to make a Blood Promise to him, but...he didn't like everything to be about him.

But what Ray and the others were doing, fucking their own lives up, just so that Kael could get his own back on track...that was something else entirely. How could he possibly pay his friends back? Offer to be a test subject for one of Mal's tests? No, that wouldn't work; he'd probably die.

No, Kael hadn't the faintest idea how he would pay his friends back. But that could wait until later, until Kael was back in business-and he had his flute, at last.

He continued on, not sparing his friends another glance. He had no idea where Selena Mason was, that was true, but that was easily remedied; all he had to do was look up 'Mason' in the phone book. Mason wasn't THAT common a name in Mayfield-sooner or later, Kael would find her.

And when he did...

He grinned, fingering his machete lovingly.

"Come to Kael, Selena...Come to Kael..." he whispered wetly, and then he winced. That slash across his arm, it was giving him the shits. He would have to staunch it before he found her. A small delay in the beginning of Greatness. But no matter, no matter; she would be his soon enough.

Kael smiled again, the blood slowly and steadily dripping down his arm.

**XxX**

He hobbled along the main street, swearing under his breath. He'd ripped some of his t-shirt away, and staunched the wound as best he could (which wasn't very well; Kael was an outlaw, not a fucking DOCTOR), but it still continued to bleed. Many people who passed him on their way to work, did double-takes and took a good, long stare. On these occasions, Kael would flip them the bird, sometimes yelling obscenities at those who were more persistent and gave him the bird right back.

One particular old woman parked in the curb, dangerously close to him. "Are you all right, dear?" She asked, worry etched deep in her wrinkled face. Kael snorted.

"What do you think, you mean old bitch? Do I LOOK all right to you?"

"No, you don't. Is there anything I can do?" She asked, not bothered by Kael's rudeness. He was about to reply snappishly, hell, he even had his mouth open to DO it, but then, he actually thought before he acted, an absolute first for Kael Paul Simons.

"Yeah, there is, actually. I cut my arm last night...and I need to find my girlfriend." At least he could still bullshit well. The old hag looked as if she were about to cry, she was so worried!

"Of-of course!" She cried, actually beginning to weep. Kael was amazed. "Please, get in, Mr...?"

"Henderson," He replied, using one of his alibis. He had about five in total, although three of them had been discovered when he'd been caught and thrown in prison. Gary Henderson was one of the lucky two that weren't. "Gary Henderson, Ma'am." The other was Chas McDermott.

"It's nice to meet you, Gary," the woman replied. She held out her hand. "Sarah Skinner." Kael took her hand, told her it was 'great to meet you too, Sarah,' and asked her if she would get him a bandage, and whether he 'could possibly use her phone book, please?' Sarah said yes, of course, she would do anything to make Gary feel better, and Kael thanked her profusely, running his fingers over the handle of his beloved machete, which was tucked away in his pocket.

Sarah's house was only two blocks away, and while she hurriedly unlocked her front door, chatting merrily to Kael while she did so, a camera flashed.

"Jesus!" Kael cried, startled and blinking rapidly to get rid of the white light that had clouded his vision. Sarah was startled, as well, and she too, was blinking like a madman...madwoman. "The HELL did that come from?" Kael wondered, glancing down the street, his fingers tightening on his blade.

"Probably next door's kids," Sarah said matter-of-factly. "They like to mess around with cameras. Their eldest son, you know, he's a freelance photographer."

"Really?"

"Yes. He's left home now, but...he really was a talented boy. He took a photograph of me once, and it turned out absolutely amazing. He used to love his Polaroid cameras, I'm not sure if he still uses them...His name was Adam Faulkner, have you ever heard of him?"

He hadn't. "No," he replied, perhaps a little too sharply. The old lady blinked.

"Okay. If you should ever come across him, though, do tell me how he is these days."

Kael didn't know what this Adam even looked like. How the hell was he supposed to recognize him? "Sure. Shall do, Sarah," he replied nevertheless.

Sarah sighed. "Right. Let's get you your bandage," she murmured, getting the door open at last. The two of them entered, Kael still on alert, ready for any more camera flashes. He didn't care if it was a stupid little kid, if they pissed him off...

"Here you go, dear," Sarah said gently, passing Kael a bandage; he took it with a grunted 'thanks' and began peeling off the scrap of t-shirt he'd used to staunch his wound with. Sarah gasped. "Oh, my Lord! What on earth happened to you, Gary?" She cried.

Kael had to admit, his arm DID look pretty fucking feral. Some of his t-shirt had somehow gotten inside his wound, along with bits of grass, and who knows what else. "Got cut crawling under barbed wire," he lied, painfully picking out the bits of grass and t-shirt out of his cut. The skin around the cut had gone a dark purple colour.

"What were you doing crawling under barbed wire?"

"My kid lost his ball. I was crawling under the wire to go get it."

No, Kael didn't actually have a kid; but Gary Henderson did, a little tyke by the name of Hank.

Sarah smiled indulgently. "A devoted father. How beautiful. But didn't you say you have a girlfriend, not a wife?"

Stupid bitch. She wasn't meant to pry! "Yeah, but we aren't married yet; we will be at the end of the year, though."

"How old is your child?"

"Hank? He's two."

Sarah smiled. "I love little children," she said. "Do come and bring Hank over one day."

"Sure. Selena and Hank both would love that. We're fairly new here; it'll be good to make some friends."

Sarah frowned. "Selena?" She asked. "Would you happen to mean Selena Mason?"

"The very one."

"Oh, tell her for me that her music is absolutely beautiful! Ask her to come and play for the whole street one day." Now there was a kind of desperate hope in her, as if Selena's music really was gorgeous.

Her music will be MY music soon, Kael thought savagely, now winding the bandage over the wound and pinning it into place once his arm was entirely covered. Still, Sarah begged she could do more.

"I'm sorry, Sarah, but I've got to get back to my girl and my kid. I'll bring them over, don't worry, but they'll be worried about me."

"Of... of course," the old woman sighed, every inch of her oozing disappointment. Kael felt oddly guilty.

"Listen," he said, leaning forward, "I WILL bring them over, I promise, and if Selena can't play for you, I will. I swear, Sarah. But I really do have to go now. Thank you , though; for everything. I truly appreciate it." He got up to leave, flexing his arm experimentally. It didn't hurt as much anymore.

Sarah grabbed his arm. "Gary!" She cried, her face glazed with sudden tears. Kael tried to tug out of the old woman's grip, but she was one strong bitch. "Tell me how Adam is," she said desperately.

"I will," Kael said softly. He pulled his arm out of the old woman's hands. "I'll see you later, Sarah."

And with that, he was out of there, one problem fixed, and yet more to still fix.

**XxX**

He managed to find Selena Masons' address in a phone book, which he found in a nearby phone booth. He glanced around surreptitiously before tearing the page out and tucking it into his pocket. Then he was down the street, anticipation gnawing at his gut.

Anticipation, and something else. Bloodlust.

**XxX**

"Jesus! The place is fucking SMALL!" Was what Kael Simons had to say about Selena Mason's house. It wasn't a house, technically-a shack would be more fitting. But what musician would live in a shack, on the outskirts of town?

Kael decided it was probably better if he left that thought alone. Yes, it was best. He couldn't afford to lose his temper now; what he did next was absolutely crucial.

He didn't bother with knocking to see if she was home-the lights on in the living room confirmed that. He simply kicked the door open. It hit the wall with a bang. Someone, presumably Selena, gasped and raced into the front hall, where she was met by Kael, holding his machete aloft.

"What is this?" She asked, not fully comprehending the full amount of danger she was in. Kael lunged at her, and brought the blade up, slashing at her arms; blood was drawn.

"It's called a knife, bitch." He replied simply, smartly. She screamed and staggered backwards. He remedied that by gripping her head between his hands and slamming her against the wall, once, twice, a third time, before he completely sure she was unconscious.

He shut the front door with a snap-didn't want anyone to get suspicious, now did he?

He dragged Selena's body into the living room, where, surely enough, there was her flute, beautiful and aged. It was silver, and it gleamed beautifully in the early-morning light. Kael was momentarily dazzled. He'd always wanted to play the flute, but...given his 'background history', he'd never had the chance to even HOLD one. Now here one was, begging to be held, to be played.

Oh, how he wanted to- but he had a job to do first.

"This better be worth it, Ray," he muttered, busy tying Selena to a chair with a length of rope he'd found. Once he was sure that she was absolutely secure, he pulled the shutters down across the windows of her home, hiding her from view. To ensure no-one would notice, he also turned off the lights. "I'll be back, baby," he whispered to Selena, who was stirring feebly.

He pawed through all of Selena's belongings, looking for what he needed most- a tape recorder.

He eventually found one, hidden in the depths of her wardrobe. Her fucking WARDROBE, for fuck's sake! Who the hell hides a tape recorder in their WARDROBE?

Alongside the tape recorder, he found several tapes, which were, thankfully, empty. That was good. That was really good. Luck was on his side, for once.

He walked back into the living room, his walk an uncaring, slow swagger, the tape recorder clutched in one hand, the machete in the other, and the empty tapes in his pocket. "Hey, babe," he cooed happily, sitting in the couch opposite Selena, who was now awake and horribly, horribly aware. He dropped the tape recorder, placed a tape in it while Selena screamed obscenities at him. He pretended not to notice, even though she was pissing him off.

"Who are you? What do you want with me?" She demanded, angry. Kael smiled darkly at her.

"I need you to do something for me," he replied.

"What? What's this about?" She cried, struggling against her bonds. Kael brought his knife up, which was stained with Selena's blood-he'd caught her on the thigh.

"You know, maybe I'll tell you if you do what I say without a fuss."

"And what's that?"

He pretended to consider. "Play the flute for me, bitch."

She spat at him. "No! Never!"

Suddenly, Kael lost what little control he'd had. The machete arced up, and settled itself in the elbow. Blood began to drip from the wound. He wasn't pressing hard; but apparently hard enough to make her weep.

She screamed, and Kael answered her. Not in words, God no, but in motion. That motion was a slap across the face. Selena flinched; Kael could see the imprint of his hand tattooed across her cheek, bright red against her white flesh. He chuckled.

She continues to cry weakly, and Kael, enraged that he is getting nowhere, pushes the knife in, slightly deeper than before. "No...Please...I'll do anything..."

"Really?" He asked, raising his eyebrows. She nods, her face wet with tears. He smiled. "Then play the flute for me, or by God, I will tear your arm off from your body." He sneered at her unpleasantly. "You hear that? I'll fucking _tear _your arm off! Do you understand, Selena? I'LL TEAR YOUR FUCKING ARM OFF!"

"I UNDERSTAND!" She screamed, and perhaps it was good that she did scream, because Kael was on the verge of losing his temper, and no, that couldn't happen, no, it just couldn't. Selena's scream served as a slap in the face for Kael. He took in a deep breath.

"Good," was all he said. He untied her, just enough for her to be able to move her arms. He had a feeling she wanted to run, or try and take the machete from him, so he moved behind her after giving her the flute, (he had the tape recorder with him, along with the tapes), and he kept the knife pointed at the back of her neck. He pressed the 'record' button on the tape recorder.

"Play," he said dangerously.

Selena played, and she played shockingly well. Kael recorded all of her songs that she had composed, the anger evaporating as quickly as it had come. He was delighted- this beautiful music was just about to be his.

Once she is finished, Kael kisses her forehead lightly. "Thanks so much, babe," he whispers, before driving his knife into the back of her throat. Selena made an odd choking noise and jerked about in her chair, unable to control her actions. Kael stepped back and noted that he'd pierced her spinal cord, and that the tip of the knife poked out through the front of her throat. Selena made an odd choking noise, and apparently tried to vomit- however, the knife, being in the way, served as a dam against whatever she was trying to bring up. She continued to jerk about in her chair, her legs kicking out wildly, spasmodically, while choking on bits of her own throat, the knife, and bile. Her arms reached toward Kael, who backed away, regarding her with something close to amusement.

He believed she tried to say something, he believed this absolutely. But no words came out, just that strange choking noise.

And then, finally, she was dead. Her legs dropped to the floor, her arms fell to her sides, and she was dead, oh yes, she was very, very dead.

Kael picked up the tape recorder and listened to her beautiful music for a moment, before picking up the bloodstained flute, with the intention of cleaning it. He crept behind the dead woman and found the handle of his knife. It was hard to get a grip of, because most of it was wedged into her neck, but he managed to pull it out. Bits of white flesh clung to it, and a sick combination of bile and blood began to drip off of it. "Fuck," he muttered in disgust, wiping the knife on Selena's blouse, the flesh coming off more easily than he would have expected. He tucked the knife back into his pocket and rang Ray.

"Kazza, my man! How the fuck are you?" Ray sounded happy to hear from him. Kael spoke quickly and quietly-he suspected that someone may have heard Selena's screams.

"Ray, I need you to come and...Do your little number on Selena's house. I reckon someone might have heard her scream, and besides, when the fucking cops get here, I'm as good as dead. My fingerprints are all over her house, I mean, _fuck, _Ray! I'm fucked!"

"Don't say that, Kazza," Ray said soothingly. "I'll be over in five. Don't stress it, Kazza, we'll handle everything."

"I fucking hope so," Kael said viciously, though his expression didn't match his tone-he was smiling.

**XxX**

While Selena's house burned, Kael made his way into town, his (clean) flute clutched in one hand, and his other swinging by his side harmlessly.

This was the time when HIS fun, actual fun, began.

Sure, he got a kick out of slashing people's throats, that was true, but he REALLY wanted to play his flute-for the first time, ever.

He paused in front of a music store. Why not? Why the fuck not? Here was as good a place as any. Kael went inside, got permission to play, and began to set up outside. There was a display of CD's, packed tightly in a trolley, and that was where he hid the tape recorder. He swept his hat off his head and placed it on the ground, by his feet. This was for the money that he would surely get.

He had to be quick. He had to press the button and begin to 'play' as soon as the music started. Somehow, he managed it, and a crowd began to gather, as a series of beautiful notes began to make themselves heard. Kael hadn't the faintest idea how to play the flute, actually, but he moved his fingers up and down the instrument like he knew what he was doing.

The crowd didn't know any better, and were soon entrance by Kael's beautiful 'music.'

"That's beautiful," one woman said, almost lovingly, to Kael. He smiled at her over the mouthpiece. She wasn't much younger than him, a year, maybe two, and she was tall, and very, very pretty.

"Just magnificent," another person said, and Kael was beyond delight now-he was at the pinnacle of pleasure. He would owe Ray and the others for...hell, for the rest of his life!

That wouldn't be a problem, though, Kael thought, watching as the crowd began to dance, and the money dropped into his hat (he had bought the hat purely for that reason).

Of course, the crowd couldn't last forever. They had jobs, appointments, friends' houses to go to, though, Kael noted gleefully, none of them looked as though they WANTED to leave. Kael turned off the tape recorder by nudging it with his foot.

He turned to pick it up, when someone tapped him in the back. "Yes?" He asked, turning around and finding himself almost nose-to-nose with a woman in her early thirties, with short, spiky hair.

The woman steps back. "You play wonderfully," she said softly. Kael thanked her, told her it 'meant a hell of a lot', and scooped the collection of coins (with a few notes tucked away in there as well) into the pocket in his jacket. He crammed the hat onto his head. "What's your name?" She asked suddenly, after watching him do all of this with an odd expression on her face-almost hungry.

"Kael. Kael Simons," he answered, shaking her hand, though she hadn't offered.

The woman smiled, though it was the sort of smile that froze people's insides-which was exactly what happened to Kael at that moment. "It's nice to meet you, Kael."

She lunged forward, her eyes eager, and the whole world went dark for Kael Paul Simons.


	4. The Black Flute Trap

**September 16****th****, 1997- The Black Flute Trap or 'HEAR WHAT I HEAR.'**

Kael woke with a start and stared around wildly. The lighting was poor, and he couldn't see two feet in front of him. "Fuck," he muttered, reaching down to retrieve his machete-only to find that he could not move his arms, for they were strapped to his sides, by thick, metal strips.

He tried to move his feet. No luck. They were bound as well. Desperate, Kael tried to move ANY part of his body-but failed miserably. The only part of him that he COULD move was his head, but his movements were limited-he had something on his neck.

And shit, did it irritate his skin. Muttering to himself, Kael twisted and bucked, trying to break free, but to no avail. "What the fuck IS this shit?" He shouted, hoping not to attract attention, but to simply understand. He continued to struggle, and felt something long and thin smack against his chest. He shied away from it.

For the first time since he was a very small child, Kael Paul Simons was afraid. Oh yes, he was afraid. And he did not like it one bit.

**XxX**

Unbeknownst to Kael, there was a camera in the corner of the room he was in. And it was turned on, the little red light glaring like a single, evil eye.

The people who were watching Kael struggle and swear were none other than Amanda Young, the woman who had kidnapped him, and John Kramer, the infamous 'Jigsaw Killer.' John was sitting in a makeshift wheelchair, bent over double, coughing up what seemed to be not just his lungs, but everything inside him. Amanda, frightened for her mentor, hovered over him, ready to assist should he ask for it.

After what seemed an age to Amanda, John's hacking coughs subsided. "John," Amanda whispered. John ignored her, his gaze fixed on the small television, where Kael's profile could be seen, and the image of him flickering dangerously every now and then. Amanda leaned forward to hear what the man was saying, but moved away with a small sound of disgust when she heard him-he was simply screaming obscenities. "John," Amanda tried again. He turned toward her, stifling another cough, an effort that racked his body with pain.

"Begin his game," he commanded softly. Amanda nodded.

**XxX**

A light flickered into life, throwing everything into sharp relief. Kael saw that the long thing on his chest was, in fact, a black flute. The thing on his neck was a metal collar of some sort. And, to his right, was a door. Kael, startled, merely gaped at it for a moment, before resuming his obscene-filled screams.

"YOU FUCKER! WHEN I FIND YOU, I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU! YOU HEAR ME? I'M GOING TO FUCKING _KILL_ YOU!"

A television set turned on, shocking Kael into silence at last. He squinted to see it properly-it was positioned nearly directly above him, and he simply could NOT bend his head back that far-at least not with the thing on his neck.

What he saw nearly made him scream again, for it was none other than Billy, the puppet the Jigsaw Killer used to convey his messages to his victims-which, Kael came to realize, he was. He was a victim in a Jigsaw trap. And he was going to die.

The puppet's head creaked loudly, as it turned to face Kael, who hung against the wall, all the fight in him gone now. It opened its mouth to speak.

"Hello, Kael. I have kept quite a close eye on you, and I know that you use people like chess pieces in your own little games, hoping it will lead you onto the path of greatness. Today, however, we are going to play one of MY games, in which we will see how strong your musical skills really are. Perhaps you will learn to HEAR WHAT I HEAR, and know that what you do is not, in any way, musical. You see the door beside you, do you not? To open it, you will need a key. Don't worry-you won't have to look very hard. It's right in front of you. Just reach out and grab it. But watch your step-those are Black Mambas. Your flute may come in handy here, so keep it close. Just remember: I consider the breath of criminals to be wasted breath. You have fifteen minutes. Live or die, Kael, make your choice."

The metal strips binding Kael to the wall retracted, freeing him from his bindings. He fell to the ground, and he tasted blood. Something began to tick. He felt around and he discovered that it was on the back of his collar. He tried to pull it off, but it was apparently welded onto his collar, and was not designed to come off. "Fuck!" He yelled, spitting angrily-it was a mixture of blood and spittle.

He got to his feet and glared at the black flute strapped to his chest. He curled his fingers around it, and pulled hard, hoping to detach it, to use it as a weapon. He gave a wild gasp of pain, sucking in a deep breath, and screamed again. There was something, something in his collar, and it was digging into his neck! The sharp sting of whatever it was made him gasp again, causing the set of razors to dig in a little deeper into his neck, severing his skin easily, too easily, almost.

It was then that Kael realized that he was well and truly fucked. Every time he took a breath, the things in his neck would dig just that little bit deeper. And, once the fifteen minutes were up, Kael realized, going cold, the device would keep driving those things into his neck, until he was dead.

Feeling faint, he crept to the edge of the platform he was on, and what he saw did nothing to help him feel better-if anything, it made him feel worse.

Snakes.

Hundreds upon hundreds of filthy, enraged snakes. They were snapping their jaws angrily, sometimes attacking one another.

And hissing. Always hissing.

Kael moaned and clapped his hands over his mouth. He was not afraid of much, but one thing he WAS afraid of was snakes. And Jigsaw knew it, knew it only too well. He had filled the pit with hundreds of the most dangerous snakes in the world, whose venom would kill you in a matter of seconds.

It was then that Kael realized what Jigsaw had meant by 'Your flute may come in handy here, so keep it close.'

He was supposed to play his way across the pit of snakes, without taking too large a breath, and retrieve the key, the key that would set him free.

Kael stood up, his face twisting horribly. He wanted to scream, to abuse the sick fuck who had put him in here, but that wasn't allowed, now was it? Not unless he wanted to die.

And Kael didn't want to die.

So it was with fresh determination that he picked up his flute, placed it to his lips, and blew. The snakes bristled, irritated by the noise. Encouraged, Kael kept blowing, and while the snakes hissed and snapped their jaws, they didn't attack, when he stepped into the pit.

_Don't look down, don't look down, _he chanted to himself, over and over, blowing until he was forced to take a breath-the razors caused yet more blood to flow.

He was halfway across before he had to take another breath, yet it somehow seemed to hurt more this time-were the razors rusty? Was he perhaps contracting an infection?

Kael decided he didn't give a fuck if he was. He needed that key.

**XxX**

Both Amanda and John watched Kael play his way across the pit. "He might make it," John said, sounding genuinely pleased-it was not often that his victims survived. In fact, John could count the amount of survivors on one hand. That disappointed him, that many people lacked the will to survive.

"He might," Amanda agreed, though not sounding as genuine as she might have liked. She was sure that Kael Simons was not going to live. John didn't know, but Amanda had made some last-minute adjustments to the trap, to truly push Kael to the limit. To be pushed was to be a part of the Jigsaw legacy, was it not?

This trap was different from most John had crafted. Most only required a single key, but this had two: one for the door, and one for the neck brace. Although John had told her to simply toss the second key in amongst the snakes, Amanda had forced it down the throat of a particularly large snake.

Yes, Amanda thought, smiling, Kael was going to be pushed to the absolute limit. And he would fail.

**XxX**

Kael grimaced, as the razors dug into his neck jus that little bit more. The little red creek was now a river, and Kael's t-shirt was sticky with his own blood.

His neck hurt so much...

A snake snapped at his foot. He jerked it back, blowing harder on his flute. The snake seemed to squeal in pain and recoiled from Kael sharply, writhing in on itself, bumping into others of its kind, who were likewise trying to escape from the poisonous music of the black flute.

_Ignore them, ignore them, ignore them... _That was his new mantra, a way of playing his 'game' without becoming paralysed with fear, as he usually did when face-to-face with a snake.

A particularly large snake spat at him. The venom didn't catch Kael in the eye, as the snake had intended, but on the side of the cheek. Kael desperately wanted to wipe it off, but there was no time. He took a tiny breath, minuscule even, but even so, the razors slid into his neck happily, severing strands of muscle. Kael felt like screaming.

After what seemed an age to Kael, he made it to the other ledge. "Fuck, YES!" He muttered happily. There the key was, hanging from the ceiling, well within arms' reach, just waiting for Kael to take it. He complied, pulling the small key from the ceiling.

**XxX**

John was smiling. So was Amanda, though not for the same reason. John was still convinced that Kael Simons would pull through and complete his game, whereas Amanda...

The young woman sighed. She hated disappointing John, but...This man deserved to die. How many people had he murdered? He did NOT appreciate his life, and the blessings he had been given-as far as Amanda was concerned, he was beyond redemption.

Yes, she thought, yes he was.

**XxX**

There was a brief sound of static, and Billy the puppet returned into view. Once again, his head creaked in Kael's general direction.

Kael, shocked, remained motionless, his hand still curled tightly around that tiny key, staring at Billy with frightened eyes. Had he really done it? Had he really won?

The puppets' mouth creaked open. "Congratulations," it croaked in that eerie voice, the voice that had made so many peoples' blood run stone cold. Kael's heart jumped. He really _had _done it! He'd beaten the sick fucker!

"You have passed the first stage of your test," Billy continued, and, just like that, Kael's heart sunk. He hadn't done it, after all. "And you now have the key that will set you free. But don't you think that collar will be a bit of a problem?" To prove its point, the razors dug into Kael's neck, though he hadn't taken a breath. "It is on a set timer, remember, and once your time is up, regardless of how far away you may get from here, those razors will continue to mutilate your neck until the blood you have spilt on others is repaid. I can tell you are wondering where this second key is. Since you are at a disadvantage here, I'll tell you where this key is: It's hidden amongst the coils of the snakes you managed to keep at bay with the flute. Hurry, Kael, before this room becomes your tomb."

The television set turned off, and Kael, numb with shock, kept staring at it for a few moments before the truth sunk in.

"FUCK! _FUCK!"_

He paid for his outburst dearly. The pain was so great that, despite not wanting to, he gasped in pain, moaning when the pressure on his neck intensified. He fell to the ground, gritting his teeth, fumbling for the fucking timer, to see how long he had left, before realizing that the timer couldn't be pulled off, at which he stood up, his face angry, and swaying slightly. He felt light-headed.

Sighing inwardly, he brought the flute to his lips and began to blow once again.

Round two, he thought dazedly.

**XxX**

"Amanda," John said suddenly. Amanda was out of her chair in an instant.

"John?" She asked, worried. John turned to her with a frown.

"I can't see the second key," he said, making the camera turn 360 degrees. He zoomed in on the snake pit, where they were snapping and hissing at Kael, who was re-entering the pit. "Where did you put it?"

Amanda remained silent. "Amanda," John said, harsher than before. "Where did you put the-"

A distraction arrived, in the form of Mark Hoffman, former detective. "John," he said, something close to admiration in his voice, though Amanda personally believed that Mark Hoffman didn't admire John, he wanted to _kill _John, for placing him in that trap that was triggered by Hoffman's _hair, _of all things! The second apprentice of the Jigsaw Killer saw Amanda hovering over John, almost protectively, as though she was afraid he might try to attack them or something.

For a split second, something that was close to surprise made itself known on his face, but was soon replaced by the usual apathetic sneer he wore so often. "Amanda," he said curtly, nodding to her. She didn't even do that. She merely glared at Hoffman, as though he was something nasty, something that didn't belong with her and John.

"Mark," John said, sounding pleased. "You have news?"

"Yes," Hoffman replied.

"Good news, I hope?"

Hoffman sneered. "The best, John." He went over to his mentors' side and produced a notepad, upon which he had written at least five pages. John took it with slightly trembling hands. Hoffman remedied that by gripping John's wrists. John wasn't that old, no, he wasn't, but Hoffman supposed that having cancer certainly sped up the aging process by a considerable amount. Poor John was only in fifties, yet he appeared much older.

Hoffman noted smugly that Amanda did NOT look happy about him holding John's wrists-no doubt SHE wanted to do that.

John began to read.

**XxX**

It was impossible to play the flute and search for this second key, Kael mused to himself, kneeling down and glancing into a snake-filled corner. Nothing there, either. The clock continued to tick.

**XxX**

"You're sure of this?" John asked Hoffman, not daring to believe it. Hoffman nodded.

"I am sure, John. I heard her say it with my own ears."

John leant back in his chair, suddenly looking older all of a sudden. He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a series of hacking coughs that made his body shudder involuntarily.

Amanda made an odd motion, as if she were going to grip John and hold him still. Hoffman stared at her oddly, and she dropped her arms to her sides, slightly embarrassed.

Eventually, John subsided. He stared at the notepad (without assistance), a most curious expression on his face. "Jill," he said wonderingly. Amanda, her curiosity getting the better of her, began reading Hoffman's notes over John's shoulder.

Hoffman made a small sound of disgust and moved to the monitor, where the psychopath known as Kael Simons was still searching for the second key. He wasn't going to pass his test; Hoffman saw this with utter clarity. No, he wasn't-if Amanda had helped set up the trap...

Kael was well and truly fucked.

**XxX**

Kael stared at the fat snake. It glared back, its tiny eyes glowing like jewels. Its' huge, black body began to slide towards him.

The notes streaming from the flute began to falter. Kael trembled visibly as the snake drew nearer.

Kael tried to move, but found he could not. It had happened, what usually happened when he encountered a snake-he was frozen to the spot, physically unable to move any part of his body, because he was paralysed with fear.

The snake lunged forward and sunk its' teeth into Kael's left arm. He screamed and jerked the snake off, tossing it to the other side of the pit. The razors dug in, the snakes hissed, and the timer continued to tick-

"FUCK THIS SHIT!" Kael screamed, flinging his flute aside and promptly failing his test.

The snakes seemed to rise as one, simultaneously, they leapt forward at Kael, biting, tearing, pumping their venom through their veins.

Kael simply stayed where he was, letting the snakes attack, making no move to protect himself. The only thing he did was scream, feeling the razors tear their way through his neck.

As blood dripped down his throat, Kael realized that he could now sympathize with how Selena felt. He began to choke on his own throat, retching involuntarily-the end result was a combination of pale flesh and blood, splattered on the floor. His screams were now wet gargles, and his hands were clutching at the collar desperately.

Kael fell to his side, took one more, shuddering breath, and died.

**XxX**

John and his two apprentices watched Kael die with no change in expression. For a few moments, all was silent.

"He failed," John said at last, gesturing for Amanda to wheel him down to the basement. Hoffman knew what he was going to do. Cut a jigsaw-shaped piece out of his flesh, that was what. That was that what John did to all of his unsuccessful victims.

When John and Amanda left the room, Hoffman moved closer to the monitor. "One down, three to go," he muttered, smiling. The fun and games were only just beginning.


	5. Breaking the Habit

**September 17****th****, 1997-Breaking the Habit. **

Desiree sighed. She knew what she had to do-but would she really be able to break her habit, the only thing she knew?

She didn't know how to kill. That was Kazza's speciality-and Mal's. Ray had never killed in cold blood, at least not directly.

She would have to learn, Desiree mused to herself, fingering the meat cleaver lovingly. She loved the huge, solid blade, but would she be able to drive it through someone?

Well, she would never know until she tried. Besides, the whole point of this wasn't to satisfy her own needs, oh no, it was to get the spotlight off of Kazza. The spotlight in question was very large, and Desiree knew the police kept tabs on those who were on parole. What was there to stop them from killing again?

"Absolutely _nothing." _Her voice was clear, not yielding the insecurities she felt. She did not like being out in the open, yet here she was-all for Kazza.

Desiree smiled. "That's right, not a single _fucking _thing!" She cried to the heavens, holding her cleaver aloft, the first rays of the sun throwing her face in sharp relief-she looked almost mad.

Shortly after, she winced. The cut on her left forearm was still relatively fresh, and it stung something horrible. "Fuck," she muttered. The wound began to seep little droplets of blood, and the skin around the edges was going a strange purple colour. She needed to treat the wound-or, at the very least, staunch it.

Desiree glanced around her. It was dark enough to provide cover...but what appealed to her more was the bridge, not twenty paces away. There were railway tracks atop it; it was apparently a railroad.

Desiree must have travelled a fair way from her friends to end up here. The railway was on the outskirts of town. "Oh well," she muttered, slicing the cleaver through the air experimentally, trying to get a feel for the sharp blade, which she would very soon plunge through someone's chest.

"Hey!"

She spun around, still clenching her weapon, as the voice shouted out from behind her. The owner of the voice was a shadowy figure, who was staring in Desiree's general direction. It was impossible to tell at this distance whether it was a man or a woman-even the voice gave nothing away.

Sweat, mingled with blood, rolled off Desiree in generous amounts-no, Desiree was absolutely NOT scared. No, definitely NOT. It was an impossibly hot day-even at this early hour.

She kept her position for a few more moments, her face hard, until she was sure that the figure was not going to attack. Several moments later, the solitary figure was joined by several others, all of them laughing heartily, the smell of weed drifting through the air. Desiree relaxed. It was a couple of stoned teenagers, perfectly harmless, as they were in no state to do anything to the former prostitute.

She chuckled to herself. "You're losing it, babe," she whispered, and laughed again. It felt good to laugh-it was something she had not done for a very long time.

She pressed on, moving farther away from the railway and the stoned teenagers, using what little shadows she had left. Where was she to go now? Home, she supposed. But it was so fucking FAR to get home-and it was daylight! How was she supposed to get there without being seen?

She'd think of something. She'd have to. She owed Kazza.

An idea making itself known to her, she edged back towards the stoned kids, tucking her weapon behind her-it was the best she could do, since she had nothing to hide it with-her jacket was at home.

As she drew closer, she saw that there were five kids in total-three boys and two girls. They were laughing boisterously, slapping each other playfully, each of them with the same dopey expression on their face. If Desiree was going to try a new habit, these were the perfect targets-they were stoned, had little balance, and would probably greet her like she was one of their own, they were so out of it.

Yes, she thought, smiling, they were _perfect. _

"Hi," she called out, once she was sure that they could see and hear her well enough, "Mind if I join you?"

The leader seemed to be a boy of about seventeen, with dark hair and equally dark shaving stubble. He regarded her curiously before grinning stupidly. "Hell yeah!" He said enthusiastically. "Got enough to fuel a fucking army here, darl! Welcome!"

"Thanks," she said, smiling. She sauntered up to them, smiling in the same seductive way she did when she used to work at the brothel-God knew she had had enough practice. It seemed to work. The leader licked his lips and offered her a puff. She accepted, feeling the weed work its dangerous magic over her-already, she felt borderline stoned. Fuck, she thought viciously, they must have some pretty strong stuff here.

"Who are you?" One of the girls asked her curiously, holding not one, but two cigarettes aloft. Desiree paused a moment before replying. She wanted this to be quick and relatively silent.

"My name's Desiree," she said sweetly. "What's yours?"

Without waiting for an answer, she swung her blade up and over the girl's throat, which sliced easily-like warm cheese. Blood seeped over her clothes, and, as the blade arced back towards Desiree, droplets of it dotted her dress and lower face. The girl's eyes widened, before she toppled to the side, her slit throat still dripping ominously.

The leader guffawed. Apparently he was so out of it that he did not fully comprehend what was happening. "You got her good, babe!" He said to Desiree, who, for the time being, ignored him. Oh, she WAS going to kill him, that was inevitable, but not right now.

The next person she attacked was a guy, who didn't even seem to realize what was going on. The meat cleaver slid over his chest, severing skin and muscle easily, almost too easily. This WAS easy, Desiree thought, as she swung back across his chest, causing his blood to spray out like a fountain. He gave a high-pitched keen on pain, before choking on his own blood. Satisfied, Desiree moved on to the next person-the only other girl, who was not as stoned as Desiree had hoped. She and she alone seemed aware of what was happening.

"Get away from me!" She screamed, staring at the boy Desiree had just wounded-fatally-who was slowly drowning in his own blood, his screams now wet gargles. "Get _AWAY, _you _PSYCHO!"_

She stumbled and fell, her head smacking against the hard ground with a sickening crack. Desiree hovered over her, wondering if she would get up and attack. After observing her for a few more moments, she decided that she would not.

Just to be on the safe side, Desiree slit the girl's throat before turning to her next victim, another male.

Gritting her teeth, (she did not like the taste of blood, and yet, here it was-gallons of it, it seemed, in her MOUTH!) she swiped at his face, which ripped away willingly enough. Skin and muscle parted from bone, and soon the right side of the boy's face was nothing but a gaping hole, the few remaining strands of sinew clinging desperately to the cheekbone. The eyes were bloodshot-one appeared to have haemorrhaged severely-though Desiree had left his eyes alone, blood was streaming from it in a red river. The boy's hand twitched, and Desiree, frightened, began to hack away at his shoulder, fearing that he should still be alive.

It was hard work, and her arms were beginning to ache, as she drove her blade through flesh, muscle, and finally, bone, though that was the hardest to hack through. When she was finished, the boy's arm lay beside his body, looking shrivelled and pathetic. Pale flesh was strewn all over the ground, and, as the sun rose in the sky, the grass appeared not green, but scarlet. A knob of white bone poked through at the boy's shoulder. This was what Desiree had been unable to hack through-it was tough, unbearably so.

Her breath coming in ragged gasps, she turned around, to see that the leader was still grinning at her fondly. "You got them good, babe," he said, admiration dripping from is voice in copious amounts. He held his hand out, and Desiree, bloodlust still raging within her, wondered if he was offering himself to her, to be killed.

She decided she didn't care what he wanted. She HAD to kill him-she couldn't have any witnesses!

"Fuck you," she snarled, and, with a mighty effort, she lunged.

Her blade lodged itself in the guy's stomach. He grimaced in pain and tried to pull it out, to no avail. Desiree was smiling, blood smeared all over her face like Indian war paint, and it was then that the guy realized that she was serious-that his mates actually WERE dead, and this wasn't some stupid joke or anything. He did the only thing he could do: he screamed, screamed to the heavens, begging, no, _praying_ that it would end quickly, that he would feel little pain.

His prayers were not answered. His stomach was ripped open as eagerly as little children did with their Christmas gifts. The blue snakes of his intestines dropped out of him, coiling onto the ground. He picked them up and tried to put them back in, but his hands were now sticky with blood, and it was hard to get a good grip on anything. He screamed again, and the madwoman answered him with another slash to his throat, grinning evilly.

A brief flare of pain, and then, he died.

Desiree smiled, as the morning sun threw what she'd done into sharp relief-the coiled snakes of the leader's intestines on the ground, the slashed throats, the gaping hole...

"This was easy," she whispered, "Too easy." And it had been. Kael had been right-killing WAS better than fucking!

Desiree wished that she'd been doing this earlier. Never in her life had she felt so in control-so _powerful. _People used to say that no-one, NO-ONE had the right to decide who lives and who dies. What bullshit that was. Desiree had that power. She could decide who should live and who should die, in an instant.

"Yes," she whispered. She'd proved them all wrong. "_Yes. YES!" _She screamed to the heavens, holding her bloodstained cleaver aloft, the blood glinting dully in the light. "I PROVED YOU _WRONG!"_

How long she stood there, enjoying her triumph, she did not know. But it can't have been for long, because surely someone would have noticed her standing there, covered in the blood of the butchered people before her?

That thought acted as a slap in the face. What the FUCK was she DOING? She had to MOVE!

**XxX**

Detective Lindsey Perez tapped on her colleague's door, wondering, no, HOPING that he would be out, or busy, because she was not sure if another Jigsaw case was what Agent Strahm needed at the moment.

Over the course of the last few months, he had become extremely obsessive over Jigsaw, convinced that he had not one, but TWO apprentices-the murders were happening more frequently than they had been.

No, Perez corrected herself, they weren't MURDERS, but SUICIDES. Jigsaw did not murder his victims; he found gruesome ways for them to kill themselves, quite often via means of self-mutilation.

"Hmm?" was Strahm's way of asking her to enter. She did so, shutting the door behind her. Strahm's disgruntled, brooding expression brightened slightly when he saw who it was. "Perez. Hey."

She nodded at him. "Strahm. We've got another Jigsaw case."

He was out of his chair in an instant. Perez noted that clippings featuring Jigsaw, along with some tape recorders in baggies, littered his desk. She sighed. It was great that he wanted to stop Jigsaw, but he needn't be taking his work home with him.

"Let's go," he said urgently, jerking Perez out of her thoughts.

"Let's," she agreed faintly, preparing herself for another set of horrors.

**XxX**

Desiree punched Ray's number into the stolen mobile. It had been in the pocket of the leader, and, though it was covered in blood, it worked perfectly fine, for which Desiree was thankful.

"Dizzy? What's up?" Ray sounded concerned, and perhaps that was all right, because if Desiree didn't move from here soon, she would be...

She swallowed. "Ray, I've done what you asked, and five more people are up there with His Holiness. But it's light, Ray, I need-can you pick me up?"

"Sure. Where abouts are you, Diz?"

Desiree looked around, taking note (for the first time) of her surroundings. "Um...you know that bridge, with the railway on top of it? I'm there, not underneath it, but close enough."

There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone. "Jesus-Fucking-Christ," he said eventually. "All the way over there? Are you pulling my fucking leg, Dizzy?"

Suddenly scared, Desiree shook her head, though she knew that Ray couldn't see it. "Fuck, no! I'm not joking, Ray! Please come and get me!" She couldn't believe Ray didn't believe her. Why would she lie, when so much was at stake?

It made no sense. But sometimes, she reminded herself, neither did Ray. He wasn't as fucked in the head as Kael, but he was still pretty fucked nevertheless.

Ray sighed. "Okay, Dizzy, I'll come and get you. Get under that bridge, you hear me? People never check over there, and besides, we can't have you being spotted, now can we? Can you do that for me?"

Desiree nodded. "Yes, Ray. I can." Suddenly, strangely, she felt like she had to know about Kael. "How's...have you heard from Kazza lately?"

Ray sounded like he was grinning. "Yeah. Two days ago, I get this call, and he asks me to set the flutists' house on fire. He's already on the pathway to greatness. I can't believe he's working so fast, I mean, fuck! Soon he's gonna be a modern Mozart." He chuckled, and Desiree joined in, encouraged by his sudden good mood. As she did so, she moved closer to the bridge, painfully aware of the blood splattered all over her. It was dry now, and her hair was plastered to her head like a helmet.

She shuddered delicately. "Yeah, well, Kazza isn't known for taking his time," she reminded Ray gently.

"Ain't that the truth. Listen, Dizzy, I'm going to be there in about fifteen minutes. We can talk then."

"Okay. Bye, Ray."

"Later, Diz."

As he hung up, Desiree hurried under the bridge and cast the mobile phone away. It landed in a clump of bushes, a place where no-one was likely to look, at least not in the present.

She now had no choice but to wait.

**XxX**

Allison Kerry was waiting for the two of them, when they reached their destination: an abandoned house, on the outskirts of town, and it appeared to be crumbling before their very eyes.

"This one is better than most," Kerry informed Strahm and Perez, her expression remaining eerily apathetic.

That was something Perez disliked about Kerry-most of the time, she related to corpses better than live people. However, this was not the time to be brooding about Kerry's faults: Perez had a job to do.

"How so?" Strahm asked. Kerry smiled colourlessly.

"Our friend Jigsaw seems to have spared us the gore he usually leaves for us," she replied. Perez was relieved. Yes, she was a detective-but she did not have much stomach for the intense gore that Jigsaw usually left behind.

"Lead the way," Strahm said amiably, pulling gloves on. Perez and Strahm then followed Kerry down to the basement, where they were met by a disturbing sight-yes, it was better than the usual Jigsaw cases, but it was still disturbing nevertheless. A young man lay on his side, many cuts all over his semi-naked body. An odd sort of metal collar was fastened around his neck, with crusted blood on the edges. A puddle of dried blood, containing yellowing flesh, was nearby. Perez leaned over it, unable to keep the expression of disgust off her face.

"What's this?" She asked the room at large. Kerry joined her, poking the flesh experimentally-Perez noted, with some degree of relief, that Kerry had gloves on.

"Flesh and blood," she replied. "Our victim apparently expelled a large amount of his OWN flesh and blood involuntarily, presumably because of that device." She pointed to the metal collar. "It was designed to tighten whenever he took a breath. If you look closely, you can see that it is lined with razors."

Perez felt slightly sick.

"The cuts?" Strahm asked. Kerry turned to him.

"Not cuts, Strahm, but puncture marks. I'd say our friend Jigsaw has taken an interest in reptiles." She pointed to an odd, black liquid oozing out of the body. "Venom."

Both Strahm and Perez glanced around the basement-not a single reptile was to be found.

Strahm knelt down beside the body. "Get a sample and have it tested," he ordered.

Kerry nodded. "Copy that."

Strahm carefully turned the body over, searching. Sure enough, there it was: the trademark jigsaw-shaped piece of flesh cut from the body. He frowned slightly. "Kerry," he said sharply. Kerry turned her gaze on him. "Get an ID on this guy, find out what he did." Kerry nodded.

Perez was running her (gloved) hands over one of the two television sets. "No tape recorder," she mused aloud. "Odd. Jigsaw usually leaves us the tape recorder."

"But not always," Strahm said.

**XxX**

"FUCK!"

Why did Ray's car have to break down NOW, of all fucking times? He needed to pick up Desiree, before she was found out!

Ray sighed and began to replace the flat tyre.

**XxX**

A car pulled up, finally. Desiree leapt up.

"Ray! Finally! I thought you'd crashed and fucking died on me!"

Ray chuckled. "I'm just too good to crash and die on you, Diz. I'm pro at driving, remember? Now hop in. I'm not supposed to be here."

He was wearing very dark clothes, Desiree noted. He was wearing some sort of hoodie that covered his upper half of his face. Normally, this would have rung warning bells, but Desiree was too desperate to take any notice. She yanked open the passenger door of the fairly-new car and fell in beside her friend.

She turned to smile at him. "Hi, Ray."

Ray turned to Desiree with a cold smile of his own. "Hey, Diz."

Desiree's smile faltered. This wasn't Ray. It was some stranger. She opened her mouth. "Who-" was all she managed before Hoffman lashed out and stuck her with a needle. She whimpered once, and then fell back, unconscious.

Hoffman drove away, smiling.


	6. The Rake Trap

**September 18****th****, 1997-The Rake Trap.**

Desiree's eyes wheeled around wildly, as her mouth slowly opened in the ever-comical 'O' shape. She couldn't see where she was-she only knew that she was in a room of some sort, and that she was sitting down. She reached out, probing the air with her fingertips, trying to find something, ANYTHING, but coming up empty.

"Shit."

_Please don't let this be what I think it is,_ she prayed. _Please, let this be one of Ray's fucked-up jokes. Please..._

However, when her hand drifted up, to the back of her neck, and felt the cruel and twisted metal there, she knew it was no joke. Ray wouldn't do this, and besides, it HADN'T been Ray in the car. It had been some stranger. But who?

Desiree decided she didn't care-at the moment, what mattered most to her was the device positioned at the back of her neck. Upon touching it lightly, she grimaced in pain. She followed the metal, reaching up, until her fingers found the end of the device.

Strange. There were knobs of metal at the end, and they hurt something awful when touched.

Grimacing, Desiree put her hand down. There was something across her chest, and it sure as fuck was uncomfortable. She eased her fingers along the edge of the cool, smooth metal, and she found that it was welded onto the edges of her seat. How did she know it was welded? Well, she tried to pry the strap away with her fingernails, but was unable to find an edge to pull away, just smooth, _hard, _molten metal.

"What the FUCK is this?" She shouted suddenly, grabbing at the strap and yanking at it uselessly, pulling until her fingers began to bleed. She held her bleeding hand in front of her face and waved it frantically, trying to see it. No such luck. "Fuck!"

Panicking, she waved her arms all around her, trying to find something, _anything..._

Her hand hit something thin and metallic. She groped at it blindingly, trying to determine what it was. It appeared to be attached to her seat.

**XxX**

When Allison Kerry tapped on Peter Strahm's door for the third time, it seemed to jerk him out a reverie of sorts. Slightly dazed, he finally looked away from his collection of newspaper clippings and tape recorders and invited her in. "Kerry," he greeted her, somewhat distractedly.

"Strahm," she replied, nodding at him. "I've got the identity of the latest Jigsaw victim. His name is Kael Simons. Age twenty-four. Recently got out on parole." She placed a file onto Strahm's desk, with a photograph of Kael Simons on the front, attached by a paper clip.

"What was he convicted for?"

"Manslaughter. Does this name mean anything to you, detective?"

Strahm frowned. He'd heard of Simons, of that he was absolutely certain, but it had been a long time. "I've heard that name before..." he said slowly, picking up the file. He peered at the photograph for a moment, before opening the file. The crease in his brow deepened, as he read Kael's history. The man had been your garden-variety psychopath-he had been in and out of jail since the age of fifteen. He liked to kill, and he had done it often.

Strahm found it hard to believe that this man had even gotten his parole-surely a murderer should never get that chance?

"Detective?" Kerry's voice, unintentionally sharp, cut the air like a knife.

"Yes. I've heard about Simons before," he told her, not looking up from the file-he was reading about Simon's friends and family. To his horror, he recognized not one, not two, but all THREE of the names on the page. His eyes widened.

"Detective?" Kerry asked again, but Strahm, lost in his own thoughts, ignored her. He KNEW those names! McMinn, Dwyer, Moore...

"They're all local," he muttered, taking out a pen from his shirt pocket and scribbling something on a piece of paper. "And best friends..."

**XxX**

A light bulb flickered into life, and it threw everything into horrible, sharp relief for Desiree McMinn.

There was an open door, just off to her left. She was in a chair, and there WAS a metal strap across her torso, keeping her in place, and there WAS something attached to her chair.

It was a mirror. She tilted it towards her and saw, with horror, that the device was hooked into the back of her neck. Tiny beads of blood dripped steadily down. Desiree whimpered, frightened.

A key hung by a fraying piece of thread, and was literally right in front of her. Desiree reached behind herself and felt the metal device, where she found something round and heavy. Hooking her fingers around it, she tried to pull it off. No such luck. Grunting with the effort, she pulled and yanked at it desperately, but her fingers, carefully manicured, kept slipping off the edge of the cool metal.

Frustrated, she tried to find an edge, but ultimately found none. Whatever it was, it was welded onto the device, and was not designed to come off. "Fuck," she muttered, reaching instead for the key.

As soon as she leant forward, a television set turned on. Desiree froze, listening to the eerie sounds of static for a moment, before she turned her head to the side and saw a grotesque sight:

A puppet, chalk-white, with red lips that were undoubtedly meant to represent a smile, but the effect was all wrong. The lips looked as if they had been painted in blood. They may have been, Desiree thought, suddenly feeling her thighs grow wet-she had wet herself. Yes, they very well may have been, for she knew whom this puppet belonged to:

The Jigsaw Killer. The puppet was used to convey the bastard's messages to his victims-which, Desiree knew, she was. She was a victim in a Jigsaw trap. She was going to die.

The puppet's head creaked audibly, as it turned to face Desiree. It leered at her unpleasantly, before opening its mouth:

"Hello, Desiree. I want to play a game. While you have completed your schooling and could have had any career you wished, you have chosen to use your body in order to get what you want. What do you value more: your life, or your body? Today, you'll show me. In front of you is a key that will rid you of the device currently hooked into the back of your neck. Just reach out, and take it. But hurry, for when your time is up, the room to this door will close, and this room becomes your tomb. How much blood will you shed to stay alive? Live or die, make your choice."

It leered at her once more, before the television turned off, and Desiree was left staring at an empty screen. Behind her, something began to tick.

**XxX**

Hoffman smiled in the near-darkness, watching the woman stare around wildly, crying out for help. She had better hurry up, Hoffman thought, scratching his chin absently, she only had two minutes before she failed her test.

Hoffman was pleased with himself. He had constructed the trap himself (under John's orders, of course), and he had to admit, it was his best yet. It consisted of a small rake, hooked into the skin at the back of the prostitutes' neck, and was designed to pull backwards once she reached for the key. It was not unwinnable, like Baxter's trap had been, but it was close enough.

Baxter. Seth Baxter. Though it had been nearly a year since Angelina's death, the very mention of her name filled Hoffman with a kind of emptiness-something he had not felt for nearly a year now. He had done whatever he could to keep the memories away, by assisting John with his traps, or constructing his own. He had thought, once Baxter had been killed, that the memories, the pain, they would all fade away, yet nothing in this world was so easy-apart from assisting John.

Hoffman smiled ruefully and turned away from the crackling monitor, his mind wandering to the time when he had first been promoted:

_The streamers, like everything else, were unnecessary. Mark Hoffman, newly-appointed Detective, thought the ceremony would have been much better without all the gaudy decorations, but he had had no say in any of it. _

_But why did such trivial things matter? This was the day, the day Hoffman became a Detective._

_All around him, people clapped and cheered, and there she was, Angelina Hoffman, his sister, up in the front. She was clapping and cheering louder than most, and when Mark stepped down from the podium, his certificate clenched in one hand, she ran to meet him, kissing him on the cheek-_

"_Oh, Mark, congratulations!"_

_-her slim, pyjama-clad body, lying there limply on the bed, blood splashed all over the sheets-_

_-When she stepped aside, a new man stepped forward. He was bald, and laced with dozens of tattoos. "Mark, I'd like you to meet my boyfriend, Seth Baxter." Seth stepped forward and offered a calloused hand to Mark, who took it somewhat reluctantly. He didn't like the look of Seth; he wasn't sure what it was, but there was something about him that he just didn't like-_

_-Her dark eyes, staring out in horror, blood drying in her hair-_

"_Nice to meet you," Mark said, taking Seth's hand. Seth smiled and replied in kind, but there was something in his smile that was rather forced-_

_-The gigantic slash across her throat, blood still dribbling out of it, the cut so deep that her spinal cord could be seen-_

"_NOOOOO! ANGELINA!" Mark screamed, reaching for his sister's body, wanting to touch her, not wanting to accept the truth-_

_A pair of arms caught him around the waist, and he merely screamed louder, wildly attempting to twist out of the iron grip-_

"_Detective, I'm so sorry-"_

"_ANGELINA! ANGELINA!"_

**XxX**

"HELP ME! PLEASE! SOMEBODY HELP ME!" Desiree screamed, as the timer (welded onto the back of the device) continued to tick. She struggled and screamed, leaning towards the door, reaching for it desperately, to no avail.

"FUCK!"

Desperate, Desiree reached for the key.

It was then that the device that was hooked into her came to life. With a creaking noise, it pulled back, pulling Desiree against the back of the chair. She screamed, as the device slowly pulled her skin away. Blood spurted all over her back, as it peeled her skin away as easily as you would do when peeling a vegetable. "FUCKING HELL!" She screamed, reaching forward for the key again, the device making an odd squelching noise as it strived to pull her back.

It wasn't the device, she realized, with a kind of sick horror, but her own skin. Her body burned, as the hooks of the device continued to pull backwards, and muscle and flesh tore away easily. Veins burst. Flesh and muscle ripped. Bone was grated against by the cold metal of the rake, grinding against them until they found more flesh to tear.

"FUCK!"

The timer continued to tick.

**XxX**

Ray sat in the gutter, his head in his hands. He'd managed to fix his busted tyre in time to see Dizzy get in a car with some stranger-someone who knocked her unconscious and drove off. He was fucking useless. Why couldn't he have been just two minutes earlier?

He could have saved Dizzy. What really fucking sucked was that he couldn't even go to the police, because they were looking for him!

How long he sat there, he had no idea, but, when he finally had control of himself, he stood up, fingering the box of matches in his pocket. Dizzy was down, there was no avoiding it, and, as horrible as it was, he had a promise to keep. He had to keep the spotlight off of Kazza, and, since Dizzy was down, that meant he had to work overtime.

Things were not going as planned. "Fuck," he muttered, entering his car and speeding away, not knowing that he, Raymond Derek Moore, was next.

**XxX**

Amanda held an aspirator to John's mouth while he re-read Hoffman's notes. He hardly dared to believe it.

John frowned-this was something he had not anticipated. Amanda, sensing his distress, lowered the aspirator. "John?" She asked quietly. She knew very little of the nature of Hoffman's notes-no doubt she had thought he had been serious when he had replied that his news was 'the best,' although, John admitted to himself, Amanda detested Hoffman, and more than often, couldn't tell when he was being sarcastic or not. He had, of course, been sarcastic on that day, the day when Kael Simons failed his test.

"John?" Amanda tried again. "What's wrong?"

He may as well tell her. She was going to find out sooner or later. "Jill Tuck," he began, "Wants to go to the police and expose us."

**XxX**

It was at that moment, with ten seconds remaining, that Desiree realized she was well and truly fucked. Her skin was now almost completely ripped away-she was coated in warm, drying blood, and she was succumbing to shock. She was just moments from death, when she found the willpower to reach for the key one last time.

Her fingers touched the key, and she felt a brief moment of triumph, before she was pulled back and she was silenced forever.

Strings of muscle dangled from her body, blood dripping steadily to the ground.

**XxX**

Hoffman pulled the picture of his sister from his pocket. There she was-how he liked to remember her, smiling and happy. "Angelina," he whispered, a single tear rolling his cheek.


	7. Playing with fire

**September 19****th****, 1997-Playing with fire.**

Raymond Moore was somewhere deep in the black, and he did not want to come up. He sensed physical pain waiting-a hangover-and a fucking spectacular one it must be if he could feel his head aching even when asleep-but not just that. There was something else. Something to do with

(Desiree)

This morning. Something to do with

(Desiree)

Fire. Yes, that was right. He had to light some fires today-he was supposed to, him and ONLY him, to keep the spotlight off of Kazza.

Yes, that was his job. His and Mal's.

(Desiree)

Someone was screaming. But it was distant.

(Desiree)

Groaning slightly, Ray tried to burrow even deeper into the black, but now, hands were on his shoulders and shaking him violently. Every shake sent a monstrous bolt of pain through his poor hung-over head.

"Ray! Ray, wake up! You have to wake up!"

Mal was shaking him. What was going on? Had the cops found him? But how was that possible? He was sleeping in the back of his car, in an abandoned parking lot...

Then, shockingly loud, penetrating the darkness like the beam of a powerful light, another scream. High-pitched. Full of terror, and pain.

His eyes flew open and he bolted into a sitting position, no idea for a moment where he was or what was happening, only knowing that his head fucking HURT and felt the size of a goddamn football.

Mal was staring at him, nearly nose-to-nose with Ray. He started, jumped backwards, and then winced at the protest his head screamed at him. God, did it hurt.

The thing about Raymond Derek Moore was that when he was hurt (and it didn't happen very often, of that he was sure nearly EVERYBODY was glad), he got angry. And when he got angry...

"WHAT THE FUCK, YOU SILLY BITCH!" He screamed, and, for a horrible moment, he was sure that his skull would split open like an eggshell, it hurt so bad. Mal flinched, and instantly, Ray felt remorse surge over him-how could he have shouted at Mal, they were supposed to be friends-

"I'm sorry, Mal."

Mal shrugged. "Doesn't matter, Ray. Listen, you aren't going to fucking _believe _what I've heard..."

**XxX**

Amanda was known to react violently-it was part of her nature. The news that John's ex-wife was planning to expose them to the police and destroy _everything _they had been working towards-well, it was not with any surprise that both John and Hoffman endured Amanda's obscene-filled screams. She sounded very much like Kael Simons, although on a smaller scale.

It was not long, however, before Amanda's screams gave away to helpless sobs. She sank to the ground, tears streaming from her eyes in what seemed to be an endless river. "How can she do this to us?" She finally asked them both, her voice breaking on 'us'. "We've worked so hard."

They had, hadn't they? And now Jill wanted to destroy it, destroy _everything, _Hoffman mused darkly. Did her hatred for John really go that deep? That she would be prepared to wreck not three lives, but hundreds, possibly thousands, of all the people who are so ungrateful to be alive?

Well, Hoffman would deal with her. John's consent or not, he would not let Jill do this.

**XxX**

"Fuck off Mal. That's not funny."

Ray was pissed off. Mal had just told him the most RIDICULOUS fairytale, some shit about Kazza being dead, and she expected him to believe her. Well, fuck that. Ray had had enough shit happen in the last few days to want to deal with yet MORE shit. And besides, Kazza couldn't be dead. No way. Kazza was unbeatable. He was one of the toughest guys Ray knew.

There was no way he could be dead.

Yet, somewhere, there was a part of him that doubted this. He _knew _something, knew that something wasn't quite right.

But it wasn't the bullshit that Mal was feeding him, oh no, it was something else-maybe the fact that he seen Dizzy being driven away by a shadowy figure, yes, that was probably it.

Mal stared back at him, her eyes wide with obvious hurt. "But...Ray-"

"No buts, Mal. My head fucking hurts, and I'm not in the mood for jokes." Yes, he should be blunt-and harsh. Otherwise, she would not get the message, and he NEEDED her to get the message, otherwise...

"Ray-"

"SHUT UP, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!"

Mal recoiled as though Ray had slapped her-which, he soon came to realize, he more or less had. Shit. He'd fucked things up with Dizzy, and now he was fucking things up with Mal, as well.

She seemed to realize that Ray regretted his outburst, because she laid her hand over his and said quietly: "I'm sorry, Ray. We'll talk about it later, when you're sober. Okay?" Ray nodded, grateful. What a stupid time to get pissed, when Kazza needed them now, more than he had ever had.

Casting his thoughts for a lighter, more important subject, he asked her if she had infected anyone. She replied that yes, yes she had, and that her death count was up to six. Ray nodded thoughtfully, yes, that was good, although he was sure his would surpass hers by a mile. Mal, seeming happier, joked that she would beat him by TWO miles.

On and on the jokes went, until at last, they had nothing to talk about, and the air was unusually tense. Mal was still convinced about Kazza, Ray knew, though he made no move to probe her about it-at this moment in time, he really didn't want to know.

What he wanted to do was light a fire.

He told Mal this as politely as he could, reassuring her that he would bring her at least one survivor for her to test. Mal nodded and said yes, that was okay, but could he please bring it in later tonight? She had a new poison she wanted to test out. Ray replied that yes, that was fine, he'd see her tonight, and, in a rare moment of affection, he kissed her on the cheek and pressed her tightly against him-his equivalent for a hug.

"You be careful, Mal," he whispered. She nodded, but looked slightly confused.

"Is there something you're not telling me?" She asked.

Ray, who was uncomfortable by this stage, merely shook his head and waved her away.

**XxX**

While Amanda was wheeling John down to the prostitute- who had flesh dripping off from her back in generous amounts-Hoffman remained behind. For some strange reason, his head hurt like a sonofabitch.

Perhaps it was the photo. Yes, yes, that was probably it. He should have not looked at the photo-but how else was he going to remember his sister?

Hoffman WANTED to remember his sister-he didn't want her to simply vanish, never to be thought of again. No, he didn't want that, of course not! He loved her too much...

He glanced up from the pocket in which the photograph now lay, and, for the briefest moment, there she was. Smiling gently. Her hair, knotted and wild. The slash across her throat. Dried blood all over her body.

Mark Hoffman stared at his sister, and she stared back, smiling teasingly, the same way they had played Staring Contest when they were kids.

Hoffman blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, the room was empty.

**XxX**

Ray was watching, and waiting. He was waiting for the perfect family-the perfect target. It needed to be a large family, so that he could snatch a 'survivor'-someone who he would personally snatch from the burning building himself. Yes. Everything was in order.

He smiled to himself, as the very family he wanted approached him. He lengthened his stride, tugged his cap lower, and stuck his hands in his pockets, appearing as casual as anything. Just as the family were going to pass him, he tripped over. Deliberately of course. He would never be so clumsy as to fall over on accident!

Down he went. He made sure his cap remained firmly on his head, but the bag he had been carrying-that flew out of his hand, landing with a loud thump on the ground. Miscellaneous objects spilled all over the ground, some rolling away, others smashing upon impact, glittering pitifully. He bit down on the blood tablets, so that false blood ran down his chin, and he (hopefully) looked worse for wear.

_These bastards better not be snots, _he prayed, as someone (he couldn't tell who-it could have been an old lady for all he knew) gasped. _Please, God, if you fucking exist, let these bastards be kind and help a poor, hung-over guy get the fuck up. PLEASE!_

Mercifully, it was the father of the family who offered Ray a hand- it was large and pink, quite harmless. "You alright?" he asked, as Ray accepted the hand and was pulled to his feet. "Bit of a nasty fall there."

"I'm alright," Ray said, swaying on the spot. No, it was NOT for the theatrics- he was, after all, hung-over, and barely able to walk in a straight line, let alone be casual, his head hurt so bad. Still, he had to try. "Thanks, mate."

The whole point of Ray's theatrics was that, when it came to 'rescuing' the 'survivor', he would be treated as a friend, and the 'survivor' would trust him. Who the survivor was going to be, he had no idea. Ordinarily, if he had to choose someone to save, it would be one of the kids. The baby, maybe. But, since he was going to kill them all (the 'survivor' indirectly-but STILL), he may as well choose someone who would come to trust Ray. The wife, perhaps? Yes, she was pretty enough, and she seemed to be worried about Ray.

Yes, Ray decided, he would 'save' the woman.

"You sure, mate?" The man asked, and something, Ray wasn't entirely sure, annoyed him. Was it the fact that he looked rich, acted rich, and even _sounded _rich? Ray didn't like rich people-most of the time, they were downright selfish fucks. Like Kazza's cousin, for example. What a shithead he was.

Ray realized that he had missed most of the rich man's queries, and, grinning embarrassedly, asked him to repeat what he had just said. The man frowned at him, his lip curling slightly. Yep, here was yet ANOTHER posh shithead. He didn't like to be fucked around. Ray knew exactly how he felt-if he didn't have to play the 'rescuer' role, he would have stabbed this guy right through the neck by now. "I SAID," the man said irritably, his expression not unlike someone who has stepped in dog shit, "That when I saw how hung-over you were, I thought I should call the police. To tell you the truth, it's sounding better and better every second. You're in no state to be walking, let alone DRIVING. Sit down."

Ray remained standing. The shithead was obviously surprised at this. "Did you hear what I said? I said sit down-you're in no state to be going anywhere!"

"I heard you," Ray replied, wearily. "But the thing is, sir, I'm not hung-over."

"Oh?"

"To tell you the truth, I'm...I suffer from a rare disease. I shouldn't be out in the sun, otherwise I just..." Ray did an impression of a fainting fit. The wife of the shithead seemed stunned. The kids (aside from the baby, who was sound asleep) looked amused. Ray felt like screaming at them, to bash the living shit out of them. Why? He wasn't so sure. The shithead himself?

Why, he looked rather sceptical. _Fuck him, _Ray thought viciously, painting an expression of intense embarrassment on his face. "I...I thought it wouldn't be so bad, considering how late in the afternoon it is."

Ray hoped with all his that for once, just ONCE, he could bullshit as well as Kazza could. _Please..._

Ray might not have been fooling the shithead, but his wife sure looked convinced-hell, the stupid bitch looked like she was about to cry! The shithead, seeing this, clenched his briefcase tightly, and stalked away, pushing the stroller ahead of him. The wife turned to Ray with a watery smile. Her two children, a boy and girl apiece, clung to her hands desperately. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, before turning and rejoining her pissed-off husband.

Ray stared after her, a most curious smile on his face.

**XxX**

Once John had carefully carved out the jigsaw-shaped of flesh, he laid it beside Desiree's mangled corpse. The blood was not dripping quite as steadily as it had been a few minutes before, and, when prodded, was beginning to congeal. John, of course, was wearing gloves, as was Amanda, so as to hide their identity from the police force, which were sure to find the body in a few days. They had already found Kael's body, John knew.

As he was being wheeled back by Amanda, his thoughts focused on Jill. Though he had never told her, he still loved her deeply, and it was part of the reason why he had called for a divorce-he knew that, in his profession, that had Jill been linked to any of this, she might have been hurt. Or killed.

He had no idea that she was going to die the very next day.

**XxX**

Ray was grinning. He felt powerful, carrying his cigarette lighter in his pocket, and holding his lighter fluid on one practised hand. He watched the wife put her kids to bed, and then retire to her bedroom, yawning. She wouldn't be yawning soon, Ray thought savagely, clenching the bottle of lighter fluid tighter-so hard that his knuckles went white. Oh no, she sure wouldn't.

Once everyone was asleep, he crept to the window emptied most of the contents of the bottle onto the window. It was best to seal off the obvious exits, Ray knew. He should have started with the door, but the shithead's family had a Rottweiler, and Christ, did it look fucking mean. It wasn't barking, not yet, but it was glaring daggers at Ray, ready to bark should Ray prove to be dangerous.

Ray grinned at it, before flicking the cigarette lighter into life. The huge dog, while ready to attack any intruder, cowered at the naked flame, and backed away, whimpering quietly. Ray slid the window open, slipping himself inside before he tossed the lighter on the drenched windowpane.

It went up instantly, and even Ray was caught by surprise. Staggering back, clapping a hand over his mouth, he bolted from the room, pausing only when he reached the shithead and his wife's bedroom. Should he kill the shithead? It didn't sound like a bad idea. In fact, it sounded like a GREAT idea. Ray wasted no time. Pulling a pocketknife out, he pushed the door of the couple's room open. There they were, sound asleep, not even aware of the ever-growing threat. Ray held the shining blade over the shithead's heart. Down it went. The man didn't even have time to realize what was happening. Blood seeped out from the rapidly-dying heart, and stained the sheets crimson. Ray grabbed his wife, and got the hell out of there.

He laid her on the ground, once they were clear of the building. He had to make sure she was alright. Soon after, she began to cough and splutter. Yes, she was okay. "But not for long," he muttered, twisting the skin on his leg cruelly-pulling it into a direction of which human skin was not meant to be pulled. It hurt like a sonofabitch, yet it seemed to calm Ray, who had been looking for some kind of relief, ever since he saw Dizzy get pulled away by that fucking bastard. Drinking didn't help. In some ways, it made Ray worse. Killing didn't really help, either. But hurting himself? That DID help-he was punishing himself for letting that bastard get Dizzy.

He deserved it, he truly did.

"Oh..." The woman was awake, and aware. "I know you. What's going on?"

Ray pretended to willing himself not to cry. Tears formed in his eyes (they were from the leg-twist, there was no way in HELL he would actually feel bad about something like THIS!), and he sniffled appropriately. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "But there's a terrible fire at your place. I only just managed to rescue you. Your family..." He paused, and, ironically enough, the sounds of the woman's screaming children were heard- they were crying for Mommy, and DADDY, and yes, Ray could hear them coughing and stumbling about the house, slowly dying.

The woman screamed. Ray slapped her. He would hardly deny the pleasure the act gave him-he was a 'hurt first, ask questions later' kind of guy. "I'm sorry," he said again, pulling her into his arms, cradling the sobbing woman the same way she had down with her own dying child.

**XxX**

By the time Ray reached Mal, he had had to knock the woman unconscious. She was lying limply in his lap, and, for a moment, he wondered what it would be like to wake up in the lap of your 'rescuer', but dismissed the thought almost as soon as it had come.

Mal was impatient. She had been waiting for hours on end, waiting for Ray to deliver the 'survivor'.

When his car pulled up to the curb, which was free of any passers-by, he got out, still holding the woman tightly, and handed her to Mal, who staggered slightly under the weight. She then proceeded to place the woman in the trunk of her car, and, with a quick kiss on the cheek, dove back into her car, and drove away, waving once, before her car disappeared into the night. Ray watched her go. "Shit happens," he muttered, before entering his own car.

**XxX**

Ray felt empty, as he drove through the empty streets. He felt as if this was the last time he would ever see Mal.

_Don't be silly, _he scolded himself, clawing at his leg; his nails, eerily sharp, drew blood, and Ray let it drip onto his leather seats, not caring at all, unable to shake off the empty feeling. He was getting fucked in the head-he was going to see Mal again, of course he was-he would see her the very next day!

As Ray's shithole apartment building came into view, he slid out of the car and locked it, still feeling odd. Yes, that was the word: odd. He was happy yet unhappy-the pain in his clawed thigh gave him a kind of sick pleasure, yet Mal made him unhappy. No, not Mal herself-the feeling that Ray would never see her again.

The world turned into a confusing red haze for Ray, who limped his way across the hallways, up numerous sets of stairs, and, finally, he reached his front door of his apartment. It was old, and had graffiti all over it-but he didn't care. His leg still fucking hurt.

Unbeknownst to Ray, a shadowy figure, clad in black and blood-red robes, with a mask of an enraged boar to complete the costume, was lurking behind the door. When Ray shut it, wincing, as the pain in his leg suddenly intensified, the figure leapt out from its refuge and grabbed Ray. He struggled, but the figure's grip was like iron-unbreakable.

The figure produced a needle, and plunged it deep into Ray's neck. The pyromaniac groaned, and then succumbed to the darkness once more.

The figure pulled off the mask, and Hoffman looked down upon the unconscious pyromaniac, grinning.


	8. The Coffin Trap

**September 20****th****, 1997- The Coffin Trap.**

Once again, Ray was in the black.

This time, however, it was not because he was hung-over, unconscious, or even asleep. He was in the black, and he couldn't see a damned thing, yet he had his eyes open. Oh yes. Ray was awake. He was confused, dazed, and in pain, but he was awake.

He was confused because he didn't know where the hell he was, or why he couldn't see. He was in pain, quite possibly because of what he had done to his leg-he now traced over the healing sores with a tentative finger, wincing at the fresh surge of pain it brought with it-but that wasn't all. There was something else.

Something else that Raymond Moore just couldn't quite place.

**XxX**

Jill Tuck was busying herself with the tedious task of cleaning her house. She swept surfaces with a pink feather duster, humming merrily to herself, as she whiled away her last hour. It had been a long time since she had done any form of cleaning-the main reason being that she was not entirely over her ex-husband, John Kramer.

Yes, he was creating traps that absolutely _destroyed_ people, but Jill knew that the old John, the one that was so sweet and caring, was still in there, he was, but he was buried underneath the horrible new person that was committing all these crimes. Jill _knew _the old John was still there; she would, eventually, bring him back out again, and perhaps things could go back the way they had been before-

"Gideon."

That unspoken word did not, as Jill had thought, fill her with pain, but excited her, much like a small child did when they said the Eff word without Mummy or Daddy knowing. Because, in reality, that was what it was. Gideon was a forbidden word, one that hadn't been spoken since that night, the night Jill had lost her unborn son.

To feel your little boy be crushed to death inside of you, yes, _inside _ofyou, well, that was most definitely the worst day of Jill's life. She remembered the agony, the sheer brutality of it, as the blood (not her own, but _HIS-_Gideon's) began dripping onto the floor, and he began to die inside of her, and she was unable to do a single thing to prevent it-

Jill sneezed. The sneeze, while a tiny, seemingly useless motion, acted as a wake-up call. She had no business sulking in the past. The past was past. Gideon was dead. John had disappeared-the REAL John, not this new, brutal John-and she was divorced from him, so really, she supposed it was time to move on.

Yes, that seemed best.

Jill resumed dusting, unaware of the fact that exactly forty-five minutes later, she would be silenced forever.

**XxX**

He had some sort of cuff on, Ray discovered, letting his hand drift from his self-inflicted wounds to the cuff, which was on his ankle. His fingers curled around it, and found no gap between the cool metal and his own skin. "What the fuck?" he muttered, trying to bring his head down as well, to see what exactly on his head. He didn't even get that far. As soon as he brought his head down, he hit something cold. And metallic. And extremely hard. "OW! FUCK!" He shouted, pulling his head back up frantically, trying not to bump it again.

Thankfully, he did not. He began to massage his sore, tender head gently, rubbing his hands over the angry lump-which was, had Ray been able to see, easily the same size of an egg. As Ray brought a hand down, it brushed the sides of the hard, cold, metal thing. "What the fuck?" He asked, wanting an answer. To his distress, there was none. Confused (and slightly scared), Ray reached out in front of him, and was met by the smooth, cool metal. "What the fuck?" He asked again, not expecting an answer, but more to interrupt the silence, that eerie, _frightening _silence.

The metal seemed to slope diagonally, away from him. He slid his hands up and down the slope, an idea beginning to form in his mind, but not wanting to see if it was true. His hands slid upwards, where the slope seemed to end, and become flat. "No," he whispered, suddenly sure he was being buried alive, like in the movies. But _yes, _there it was, another diagonal slope, on his other side.

"Oh, fuck _NO!" _

He was in a coffin.

**XxX**

Perez was sipping at a coffee in her office when Strahm rushed in, looking more haggard than ever-she supposed he had been examining the Simon's file all night-it was something Strahm was prone to do, when he was on a Jigsaw case.

"We have to go. Now." Was Strahm's way of greeting his partner, when he stopped, panting lightly, in front of Perez.

"What is it?" Perez asked, noting that Strahm's shirt was partway unbuttoned, his hair was a scruffy mess, and he had bags the size of Nebraska under his eyes. He looked...well, there really was no other word for it: Shit. Peter Strahm looked like complete shit. "Strahm, you look horrible! Did you stay awake studying that file all night?"

Strahm ignored her. "We have another Jigsaw case," he said. Perez saw that he was fiddling his pistol, playing with it in his agitation.

Another Jigsaw case. Perez tossed her half-empty take-away coffee in the bin and stood up. "Let's go," she said, feeling ready for yet more horrors-a true first for Lindsey Perez.

But while _she _might have been ready, she was not so sure about her partner.

**XxX**

There was something tied around Ray's wrist. He snatched at it, accidentally gouging himself with his long, sharp nails. He hissed in pain, as he felt the nails dig into his skin. Blood swelled to the surface, but it was not a large amount, oh no, it was hardly anything at all. Nothing to worry about, really.

What worried Ray more was the object that had been tied around his wrist. It was small, rectangular in shape. Seemingly harmless-looking. Ray ran his fingers over the entire surface of the object, looking for a button to press, or a switch to pull, perhaps, even though he had no idea-

His finger caught on something. A button. Hesitantly, Ray pressed it in, sucking in a deep breath as he did so.

Silence for a moment, and then, a raspy, chilling voice answered Ray:

"Hello, Raymond. In the course of your young life, you have lit several fires, causing immense damage to men, women and children alike. Now it is time for you to reap your reward, and for all those you have burned to have their revenge. Listen carefully: You are shackled to the bottom of a coffin-when this tape finishes playing, it will slowly be lowered into a furnace. Then you will have only three minutes before your body fluids begin to boil you alive, and you join those you have murdered in death. Simply remove what you are bound by, and exit through the roof of the coffin. Let the game begin."

Ray could only gape-surely this was a joke, a sick joke being played on him by someone? Because Ray COULDN'T be a victim in a Jigsaw trap-there was no fucking way! "Very funny," he said aloud to whoever was playing the joke on him, letting sarcasm fill his voice. The act made him feel stronger. "Real mature, assholes. You got me. Now let me the fuck out."

He paused, to see if anyone would reply. When no-one did, he began to get angry. "Let me the fuck out!" He shouted, pounding on the coffin angrily. "You hear me, cocksuckers? I said LET ME THE FUCK OUT!"

With this last, angry cry, he punched the coffin, so hard that it shuddered. Ray noticed this and began to smile, as the coffin continued to shudder. "Wait..." he said slowly, as the shuddering intensified, and Ray's leg, already sore, was thrust against the side of the coffin. Ray screamed. "Fuck, NO!"

**XxX**

John was watching the coffin slowly being lowered into the furnace, with Amanda beside him. Hoffman was nowhere to be seen, although John trusted that he would be constructing the final trap, designated for Melanie Dwyer. He could trust Hoffman, John knew. Hoffman was perhaps his most loyal, most capable apprentice out of the two. Amanda, she cared for John, and she helped to build his traps, but she was frail, both emotionally and physically, although, John had to admit, she was more physically capable than he was-he had to be pushed around in a makeshift wheelchair!

The lower end of the coffin was now entering the furnace. John smiled ruefully, impressed. The trap had been Amanda's idea; let the coffin go down into the furnace with the victim inside, and listen to his agonised screams, as he began to burn alive. It wasn't particularly violent-not in the usual sense of the word. Usually, the victims had limbs pulled off, or part of their skin torn away...but burning simply _suited _Raymond Moore, suited him perfectly-and it was not like burning was a peaceful way to go. Your body fluids would begin to boil. Your skin would redden, and darken as the heat intensified.

Yes, burning was NOT a peaceful way to go. And it suited Raymond to a dime. If he could escape, then he would be instantly rehabilitated.

John was not sure if the term 'third time lucky' applied here. He hoped it would.

**XxX**

The metal, once so cool, began to heat up. Ray looked down at himself in horror, even though he was unable to see, and he screamed. The noise was a high-pitched keen of pure terror, and, while it seemed so loud to Ray, who felt as if his head might split open from the noise, never made it outside to the people who were watching. Had it gotten outside, there would have been no help anyway. Ray was on his own.

**XxX**

Strahm seemed unnaturally eager. He hurried to the car, threw (literally _threw _himself in, there really was no other word for it) himself inside, and started the car up, his keys dangling happily in the ignition. Perez got in beside her partner, watching him warily. She had thought that he seemed haggard before. How very wrong she was. Now that she could see him up close, she saw that his face was chalk-white, and the beginnings of shaving stubble was making itself known-obviously, he hadn't been looking after himself as he usually did. Usually he was so polished, so...Strahm.

She might as well have been seated next to a complete stranger, this new, unhealthy-looking Strahm was so different than what she was sued to.

Despite driving, Strahm noticed her scrutiny. "What?" He asked, sounding slightly annoyed. Perez tried to make her voice as gentle as she could.

"Peter, you don't look healthy. Are you sleeping?"

Despite her soothing tone and hushed voice, he took offence. "That's not relevant at this moment in time, Lindsey. What IS relevant is that we have another Jigsaw victim. What matters more to you, the fact that I don't look my best, or the fact that we might be closer to catching a serial killer?" Perez flinched, slightly hurt. He was right, of course. Catching Jigsaw was their priority, but Strahm needn't have been so...

Strahm, noticing the hurt in his partner's eyes, slowed the car down and sighed. "Look, I'm sorry," he said, feeling like such a fucking jerk, "But we're on a job now. We'll talk later, okay?"

Perez smiled. It was only a small one, but it was a start. "Okay, Peter," she replied. "Later."

On they drove.

**XxX**

There she was.

Hoffman stared at his sister, who was standing in the doorway, watching him, a slight smile on her lips. Hoffman had been in the middle of constructing the final trap, a device John liked to refer to as the 'Iron Chair'. Then SHE had appeared; his lovely sister.

He stared at her, and she returned the stare, smiling playfully, tossing her hair back, to reveal the deep gash in her neck. "Angelina," he said, without realizing it. He reached out towards her, wanting to feel that she was really there, and she was NOT a figment of his imagination, because that would bring pain, and Hoffman, while in considerably better mental shape than John's other apprentice, Amanda, he did not think he could deal with this.

She walked towards him, her own hand outstretched, the smile fading slightly. "Mark," she whispered, and then their fingers touched, and she _was _real, and Hoffman was _not _going crazy-By God, he could even feel the warmth in her fingers.

Angelina smiled at her brother's amazement, and laced her fingers with his, so that they were holding hands, like little children might do. "You're not a cop anymore," she said, sounding surprised.

Hoffman shook his head. "Not anymore, Angie. I work for John now." For some reason, he didn't need to say any more. Angelina seemed to know exactly what he was talking about.

"You still have a gun," she noted, eyeing the pistol that lay off to Hoffman's side, the nuzzle pointing away from him.

"Yeah. I need one still." Again, that seemed to be enough for Angelina, who merely nodded.

"Mark," she whispered, sounding weak, and scared-a little girl's voice. Hoffman jumped up to comfort his sister, but she shrugged out his arms. "I read your notes. Jill Tuck wants to ruin everything for you and John, doesn't she?"

Despite being in the company of his sister, Hoffman saw red. Just the very mention of Jill Tuck pissed him off. "Yes," he replied, through gritted teeth, "Yes, she does."

Angelina, seeing that her brother was about to lose his temper, put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "She shouldn't do that," she said quietly. "Not after everything you've been working for. She needs to be taught a lesson, Mark, and only _you _can teach her." Hoffman stared straight ahead. It sounded like a good idea. A very good idea. One that he, Hoffman, had been poring over, ever since that stupid slut had mentioned going to the police. She deserved it. Oh yes, she sure did. Angelina picked up Hoffman's pistol. "She deserves a good lesson, Mark, and teach her well, oh, teach her well, otherwise she won't learn, oh Mark, teach her now! Teach her so she won't ever forget!"

Hoffman smiled. "Yes," he said, to both himself and his sister, "I'll teach her, all right. I'll teach her a lesson she'll never forget."

**XxX**

"LET ME OUT! LET ME THE FUCK OUT, YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!" Ray screamed, as the coffin began to turn red. His feet burned horribly. He screamed again, pulling his feet up from the burning floor. As he did so, he noticed that there was a blade on the floor, slowly turning red from the flames licking the outside of the coffin.

Now Ray knew what he had to do. He had to cut his foot off, and escape through the roof, where there was a small trapdoor, barely large enough for him to be able to push his body through. "NO!" He cried, even though he KNEW that yes, yes, he had to do it, if he wanted to live. Grimacing, he bent down, grazing his head against the side of the coffin, which was now slowly turning red.

He reached for the knife. He missed, and his fingers touched bottom of the coffin. He let out a terrible scream of agony, as his fingers blistered before his own eyes. The reason he could see was because the coffin was red-hot, and it lit up like a torch, a painful, painful torch. His feet began to smoke, and the cuff began to heat up as well. Ray screamed again, his ankle chafing against the cuff, the burning metal digging deep into his flesh, and there was a cooking-bacon smell now, and Ray knew that it was his own feet cooking on the floor of the coffin. Blood began to run down his ankle, as the cuff dug deeper into his flesh, and the skin parted as easily as anything. The cuff chafed against raw muscle, and ray screamed again, as his muscles began to burn...

"NO!" He yelled, reaching for the knife again. He didn't want to die, and certainly not in a pissy situation like this.

His fingers touched the handle of the blade.

**XxX**

Kerry was waiting for them, as was Detective Fisk and several others. There were none that Perez recognized.

"The damage?" Strahm rasped at Kerry, pulling his tie straight, at last. Perez saw Kerry take in Strahm's unusual scruffiness, but, thankfully, said nothing.

"Worse than last time," she replied. "Shall we proceed?"

Strahm nodded, pulling a pair of rubber gloves on. Perez followed his example. Kerry led them to a house across the street, and, instead of going inside and into the basement (as was customary when studying a Jigsaw victim-the killer seemed to prefer using isolated, cold places for his 'games'), she led them into a shed, which was behind the house.

"The door was on a spring timer," she informed them, tapping it smartly with her knuckles. "If she didn't complete her game before the timer went off, the door would close, sealing her inside."

"The body?" Strahm demanded, sounding harsher than he meant to. Kerry nodded.

"This way," she said, taking them inside, where they were met by a gruesome sight-a woman, no more than twenty-seven, lay, hunched over in her chair, bits of dried muscle clinging onto her body. A rake-like device was standing solidly at the back of the chair, poker-straight, with a massive sheet of the woman's skin attached to it. "The ends of the rake were hooked into the victim's neck," Kerry told Perez, who hung back from the body, feeling sicker than ever. The woman's back had been ripped away, and you could see her backbone, shockingly white. Strahm, however, knelt down and began to inspect the body, frowning. "It was designed to pull back when she reached for the key."

She indicated the key, which was hanging in front of the victim, its dull gold smeared with brown-the blood had dried. "The key was needed to remove the device," Perez said, adding to what Kerry had already said. Both Strahm and Kerry nodded, Strahm not looking up from the body. "And she would have to do it while it was still pulling back." As she said that, her stomach lurched unpleasantly. She could imagine that only too well-the woman, reaching for the key, while the rake ripped her back away. And then, the door slamming shut.

Perez shuddered. The poor girl...

"Get an ID on this woman immediately," Strahm ordered Kerry, lifting the woman's face up to his. They were nose-to-nose, and Strahm, squinting at her, seemed to be trying to figure out who she was.

Kerry nodded and went to talk to Detective Fisk, who was taking photographs of the sheds' interior. Perez, despite her disgust, knelt down beside Strahm. "What do you know that I don't?" She asked him. He glanced at her briefly and turned the woman's face, so that it was facing Perez, who recoiled at the pain etched on the woman's face.

"If this is who I think it is," he began, "Then I may know who Jigsaw is targeting. We might be able to save the others, before Jigsaw gets to them."

"Peter, I don't understand-"

The camera flashed, and the woman's pain was thrown into sharp, terrible relief. Strahm looked gaunter than ever, as he processed his partner's reaction.

**XxX**

Jill Tuck lived in a house not too far away from where John was holding his current lair, and Hoffman drove there immediately, after donning his pistol and the pig mask, so as to conceal his identity from the authorities.

As a precaution, he also pulled a pair of rubber gloves on. Any fingerprints that he MIGHT have left behind...well, now there was no need to worry about that, was there?

Angelina was sitting beside him, bubbling with excitement. She kept her hand on Hoffman's arm, whispering the same words, over and over again:

"Teach her, Mark, teach Jill a lesson she'll never forget...Teach her Mark, teach Jill a lesson she'll never forget..."

Her excitement was contagious. Hoffman was filled with a kind of dark excitement, and he longed to put the nuzzle of the pistol between Jill's eyes and pull the trigger. Oh, how that would thrill him! To see her brains on the floor! To see her blood stain the carpet! The walls! How he longed to see her die!

At last, at long last, he arrived at Jill's house. Smiling underneath the mask, he approached her front door, holding his pistol aloft. Angelina drifted alongside him, smiling as well. He pushed the doorbell. A cheery tune echoed through Jill's house, and he saw her approach the door, humming to herself-he could hear her.

She opened the door. "Hello?" She asked tentatively, and Hoffman whipped his gun in front of her face, stepping into view, and she stepped back, with a gasp, and, even though she couldn't see it, he grinned at her.

"Get inside, motherfucker," he said, not sounding angry at all, but cheerful-amiable. Jill, recognizing Hoffman's voice, did as she was told and stepped back into her home, and he stepped in as well, shutting the door softly behind him, still keeping the gun pointed between her eyes all the while. With one hand, he pulled the mask off, and threw it at his feet. Angelina giggled.

"Teach her, Mark," she whispered. Hoffman nodded.

"Jill," he said cheerfully. "Hello, Jill. I'm going to teach you a lesson today."

Jill stared at Hoffman with wide eyes. She hadn't the faintest idea what was happening-was this a joke?

But then she saw the coldness in Hoffman's eyes, and she knew it was no joke. Hoffman's mouth was twitching. He had gone insane; she saw this quite clearly-Hoffman was insane and abnormally cheery. "Hoffman," Jill croaked. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Hoffman put the nuzzle between her eyes. "I'm the teacher, Jill," he said, as if that explained everything. "You're the student. You're here to learn."

"But what am I learning? You're not making sense-"

"No," he said softly. "_You're _not making sense." He directed her further inside, his finger never moving from the trigger. His moment was so close. He knew it, and so did Angelina, who was bouncing up and down with anticipation.

"Do it, Mark!" She shouted. "Teach her!"

Hoffman made Jill sit on the lounge, still aiming at her. She stared at him, helpless under his power-the power Angie had given him. His eyes, an ice-blue colour, never moved from her face. Jill whimpered-his eyes were eerie. "I know what you're planning to do to John," he said at last, breaking the silence. Jill tried to speak, but Hoffman hushed her. "You're going to go to the police and turn him in. How could you do that, Jill? John loves you." This was apparently news to Jill, who gaped at Hoffman. Angelina grinned. She loved seeing her brother in a position of power-she loved it so much.

"He loves you," he repeated. "And you're going to turn him in, and ruin everything. Well, now, I'm afraid I can't let that happen, Jill."

"No," Jill whispered. Hoffman was insane-and he was under the impression that she, Jill Tuck, had wanted to go to the police, to turn in her ex-husband! She would never do such a thing! Hoffman leered at her.

"_Yes, _Jill. It's time for me to teach you a lesson." His finger twitched on the trigger. His grin grew, and, for no particular reason at all, he began to chant softly:

"_John and Jill went up the hill, to fetch a pail of water, _

_John fell down, and broke his crown, and Jill-"_His finger tightened-

"_-Came tumbling after."_

The gun went off, and Jill's head exploded. Blood and bits of random gore soaked Hoffman's face and neck, and he grinned. He'd taught the lesson. He had really done it.

**XxX**

Ray howled in agony, as he pressed the blade against his ankle and he began to saw. Blood spurted out and hit the coffin, which was now red-hot all over, hissing when it hit the burning metal. Ray's feet were two blackened stumps, the smell of cooking bacon now very strong, and his skin was blistered all over, and, as he sawed through his foot, bits of blackened flesh fell off of him. Ray continued to scream, as he cut through his own flesh, muscle, and the blade grated against bone, yet he kept sawing away, and yes, the blade began to cut through that as well, and finally-

His foot fell away, and Ray, now only having one foot, fell backwards, and screamed, as his back burned. His skin was a deep red-his legs were blackening. The smell of bacon was now overwhelming. Howling, Ray leapt for the exit. He pushed it open, and he tried to heave his body up, but lack of blood made it hard to concentrate; the walls of the coffin seemed to spin all around him. "No!" He cried, before he lost his grip, and Raymond Derek Moore fell.

He never did get up again.

The smell of bacon was now so strong that even John and Amanda could smell it.


	9. Connections

**September 21****st****, 1997- Connections.**

Melanie Dwyer was pleased with her efforts. As soon as Ray had given her the test subject, Melanie had driven her home and administered the poison. It was, of course, a new discovery-and the effects, while almost certainly lethal, were surprising. The woman had gone an odd burgundy, and proceeded to have numerous convulsions before succumbing to Death's embrace. She remembered watching the woman die without any change in expression or feeling, and, once she had died, she remembered leaving the (dirty) syringe embedded in her skin, leaving fingerprints behind. Leaving her identity behind. She remembered whispering the words 'Shit happens' before simply walking away.

She hadn't killed the woman in her own home, God no, but she had done it not too far away, so she wouldn't have far to walk once the job was done.

And now she was lusting for more death, more victims. However, she would have to be careful. She would have to plan it out carefully, before she did ANYTHING.

That was the problem with Kazza and Ray, she thought, as she washed her delicate hands in her bathroom sink, watching the dirty smears wash away, down the drain. Yes, that was it. Those two never planned anything out-which was more or less why Kazza had been in and out of jail for most of his life.

The very mention of Kazza filled Melanie with a feeling of such emptiness, that she wanted to simply fall down and cry, to sob her heart out, because she knew that she was killing for nothing, yes, NOTHING, because Kazza was dead. Despite what Ray said, Kazza was dead, and Melanie knew it was the truth, because she had SEEN a photograph of his body

_(-That photograph of Kazza, lying there with the metal collar on his neck, the puddle of blood and flesh, oh, how she HATED TO SEE HER LOVER LIKE THAT!-)_

with her own two eyes!

She sniffed audibly and dabbed at her tears with a handtowel. It wouldn't matter what she did, NOTHING would change the fact that Kazza, her close friend and temporary lover, was dead.

_(The words, scrawled on the back: 'THE PROMISE HAS BEEN BROKEN'-) _

But she had made a promise. It was her duty to keep it.

_(-The phone ringing, and that voice, threatening her-)_

Melanie pulled the left sleeve of her shirt up. For a moment, she simply stared at the gash. It was not completely healed but it was getting there. She caressed it gently, remembering the brutal, stinging feeling of HIS blood, Kazza's, mingling with her own. She remembered her whimpers of pain, and Kazza's own hushed sounds, as he so desperately pretended that no, it DIDN'T hurt, not at all, and he was so TOUGH, so BRAVE, and-

Despite trying to remain strong for her friends, Melanie began to sob, her shoulders heaving with grief. She slumped against the sink, the tap still running, the rush of water ALMOST matching the river of tears that Melanie wept. She wept for Kazza, her friend. She wept for her lover. She wept for the rest of her friends, Dizzy and Ray. She wept for the futility of it all.

**XxX**

John was disappointed. Apparently the term 'third time lucky' no longer applied to anything anymore.

The trap had taken place in an abandoned funeral parlour, and the coffin had been delivered into the furnace via means of a conveyor belt. The furnace had been used for cremating bodies, and, while the trap had certainly done its' job, John was still disappointed that Raymond Moore had not survived. John had actually wanted Raymond to survive; he had seen great potential in the young pyromaniac, a potential that neither Amanda nor Hoffman possessed. Although, John had to admit that Raymond's self-harming tendencies were a major flaw; he already had difficulty restraining Amanda from harming herself.

Judging from Hoffman's and Amanda's constant research, Raymond had been mutilating himself for years, often pulling or clawing his own skin in places that were easy to cover up; such as the upper thighs, or the lower chest. Shots of Raymond's partially-nude body (before the trap had begun) showed numerous scars on his chest, some deeper and more vicious than others.

Perhaps it was best that Raymond failed his test, John thought, as Amanda began to wheel him down to the cremation chamber. The smell of cooking bacon still hung about it the air. If John had not known that the smell was in fact burning flesh, the smell would have appealed to him greatly. He was hungry, he was dying, and he was desperate to see how the Iron Chair trap worked out.

The idea had come from two peculiar medieval torture methods: the Iron Maiden, and the Chair of Torture. John had been trying to think of a name for the device (on which Hoffman was now supposed to be working on, although, since neither Amanda nor John had heard from him for a few hours now, he may have finished it at last), when Amanda had cleverly combined the name of the two devices, thus calling the final trap the 'Iron Chair.'

John was incredibly pleased with his young apprentice.

Now, alone in the funeral parlour (except for Amanda, who was watching John carefully-he hadn't been able to cut the jigsaw-shaped piece out of Raymond's body yesterday-she had had to do it), John felt oddly relaxed. Yes, he knew he was dying, and that his life would end soon, but, in a way, he was immortal. Because he had apprentices, the legacy, no, HIS legacy, would never die. And, surely along the line somewhere, either Hoffman or Amanda may even have apprentices of their own.

"Amanda," John said. Even that small effort evoked a brutal coughing fit; with every cough, John's frail body was racked with pain.

In an instant, she was by his side, ready to assist in any way. Holding the aspirator to his mouth, she murmured reassuringly, telling him that it was alright, she was here for him, and he needn't worry. When he subsided, John smiled at Amanda and carefully took her hand in his. "Amanda," he said again.

"John?"

"Where is Mark?" He asked, looking unsettled. At the mention of Hoffman's name, Amanda scowled. She didn't like Hoffman-in fact, she would even go so far as to say that she HATED him. She saw him as an intruder, a third wheel, especially when everything between John and herself was already perfect.

However, she would not let John know any of this-like her secret of self-harming, it was a secret. A secret she would gladly take to her grave. So, in response to his question, she merely shrugged. "I haven't seen him."

But she had. She had seen him driving, away from the funeral parlour...away from John.

**XxX**

"Peter, we can't go out on a hunch! We need physical evidence-"

"Is this not evidence enough for you?" Strahm demanded angrily, marching up to his partner and waving the files in her face. She sighed. Strahm was obsessing over the murders, no, SUICIDES, of Kael Simons and Desiree McMinn. He was pale and unshaven-he no longer resembled the highly polished Peter Strahm he had been a few days ago. He was a complete stranger to Perez. And she had thought he had looked haggard before! The shirt he was rumpled and unbuttoned (thankfully, it was one of those shirts where it only buttoned up at the neckline-but STILL), and his jacket hung off of him like a sack. He had his arms in it, but it was hanging around his waist. There was no tie-apparently he hadn't bothered to put one on. "They are best FRIENDS, and have been all these years!"

Strahm threw the files onto his desk and pulled at his hair-for an instant, he resembled a madman.

What had set Strahm off was not, as Perez had first thought, the cup of coffee she had offered him, but the beginning of that 'talk' they had promised to have. LATER. But things had not gone as planned. Instead of coaxing Strahm's information out of him, Perez had enraged him, reminding him of the cases he had been obsessing over lately, the cases that had, for a very brief moment, had been forgotten.

Now Strahm wanted to go and see if Raymond Moore (a pyromaniac) and Melanie Dwyer (a respected botanist) were still alive, and assign them protection if they were. Perez knew her partner meant well, but she ultimately failed to see how he had come to this conclusion.

He now moved back towards Perez, who, despite herself, flinched. Strahm, upon seeing this, dropped the hand that had been intended to reassure and merely stood there, panting lightly. WHY he was panting, Perez hadn't the faintest idea- probably because of all the shouting he'd done.

There was a tense silence, before Strahm began where he'd left off:

"We can at least look," he said softly, almost begging. "If we can prevent two more murders..."

"All right," Perez sighed. "I'll humour you, Peter. Who are we to check on first?" She inquired, now picking at one of the files-the prostitutes'.

Strahm considered. "The pyromaniac. I have a feeling that Jigsaw's going to go after him next."

**XxX**

Melanie slowly pulled herself together. Her face was wet with tears, and her eyes were bloodshot-she looked a real mess, but at least she wasn't crying like a fucking baby anymore. She stared at herself in the mirror, tracing over the gash on her arm once more-it was the last time she and Kazza had ever touched, and she wanted to treasure it.

"I made a promise," she whispered, sounding (and looking) terrified. "And I always keep my promises."

Before she could start crying again, she turned the tap off and trudged into her bedroom, ready to do what she did best: plan.

**XxX**

Hoffman was in deep shit. No, he HADN'T been seen teaching Jill, but he'd been gone too long-if John found out what Hoffman had done-

He gritted his teeth together. He didn't want to upset John. But what he had had to do was vital-he'd had no other choice. Jill was going to turn John in, and everything he, Hoffman, and Amanda had strived for...

That would have gone down the drain. And Mark Hoffman absolutely could NOT allow that. No-fucking-way.

"I did the right thing," he murmured, starting the drive back to John's lair.

**XxX**

When Strahm and Perez arrived at the pyromaniac's shithole apartment, they were not entirely sure what they would find. The pyromaniac setting something on fire? Him making a mad dash for his car, trying to escape the agents?

Whatever they had expected to find, it was not this. A completely empty apartment, once Strahm had made his way inside ("I'm Special Agent Peter Strahm and I DEMAND you let me investigate the residence of Mr. Raymond Moore, sir!), and with signs of a scuffle.

"He kicked the door," Strahm informed Perez, mopping his brow with a handkerchief (he was sweating, for some unknown reason). "In a struggle, perhaps?"

"Raymond Moore was known for his self-harming tendencies," Perez interjected. "We can't rule out the possibility of self-injury, Peter."

"That's true," he agreed. "But, if he was to inflict injuries on himself, don't you think he would have used a razor, or some other sharp object? Correct me if I'm wrong, but kicking a door seems like a pretty extreme way of harming yourself. You'd have to kick it for a long while before anything happened. And look: the coffee table is overturned. I think that overrules the possibility of harming himself, unless he tried to impale himself on the table legs."

Perez fought back a smile. Now HERE was her partner-rational and determined as always, if somewhat a smart-ass. "Okay, so if that's what happened, then we need to check security."

Strahm's eyes lit up.

**XxX**

Melanie began to plan her next few moves carefully. Really, she had no say in what she had to do-but she had to be careful. Kazza was dead, and there was no way of knowing what had happened to Dizzy and Ray. Of course, Melanie had heard from Ray just two days ago, so he was probably still alive.

Still...

"Damn it," she whispered, yanking at her hair in frustration. She hated this-she hated being made to play by the rules! And the thing was, if she DIDN'T play by the rules...

She shivered. She had to get herself together. She had to plan. She had to play by the rules. She had to murder.

**XxX**

Strahm leaned over the monitors, so close that he was nearly pressed up against them. Perez was watching as well, but she was not nearly as close. On the screens, people went in and out of the apartment. People laughed, people cried, people cursed...there was nothing of interest. Until, something very odd caught Strahm's eye.

"Aha!" He shouted suddenly, jabbing at the screen rather violently with a finger. "See that, Lindsey?" He asked excitedly, pointing:

It was a well-built male, wearing trademark black-and-crimson robes, with a pig mask apiece. Strahm knew it was a male-no female could be built quite that way, and yes, there the figure went, drifting down the hallway, until it reached Moore's door. It hunched over the lock, obscuring Strahm's vision momentarily, and opened the door as easily as anything, and then slipped inside. It did not go far-Strahm could see that much, but it looked like it slipped behind the door.

Strahm pressed up against the screen, desperate to see more. Perez leaned over his shoulder, squinting.

It was some time before anything more of interest happened, but eventually, a man in his late twenties/early thirties limped down the corridor, dressed in dirty jeans and a navy-blue polo shirt, and a dark blue jacket pulled over the top. He looked almost as shit as Strahm did. He was smoking, and, as the two agents watched, he threw the cigarette on the ground and stamped it out. He grimaced and clutched at his leg. He limped over to his front door, fumbled with the lock for a moment, and limped his way inside.

He didn't get very far. As soon as he made to shut the door, the figure jumped out and attacked him, pulling a syringe from the depths of its pockets. It jabbed at the pyromaniac, who twisted to avoid it, his legs kicking out wildly. One of them caught the coffee table and turned it over. The figure jabbed again, and this time, it did not miss. It buried itself deep into Moore's neck. The pyromaniac groaned once, and was still in the figure's embrace.

Suddenly, the camera turned off. "Damn it!" Strahm shouted, pounding his fist on the table angrily. "We nearly had the fucker!"

Perez put a hand on his shoulder. To her horror, she discovered that he was thinner than before-she would have to make him eat, tidy himself up a bit. "Peter-" she began gently, only to be shrugged off.

"We're going to have to take this tape for further investigation," Strahm said, suddenly eerily calm. The owner of the apartment building nodded feverishly.

"Yes...of course, sir..."

**XxX**

Melanie prepared a few syringes with the same poison that she had used on the woman Ray had 'given' to her. She hadn't really planned ANYTHING, but she had to kill, absolutely had NO choice in the matter.

Pulling her short, spiky hair into a ponytail, she dressed quickly and efficiently, doing so with a kind of eerie grimness. She didn't want to be handed in to the police.

She waited until the sky was dark, before she got up from the desk and slipped the syringes into her pocket. They were not particularly large, so they went in without much protest.

Yes. She had to do this, and she had to do it NOW.

She pulled a balaclava over her face, which she supposed was just as well- her mouth was pulled up into a frozen grimace of pain- and she eased her way outside. There were few people about, and those who WERE outside paid Melanie no attention whatsoever.

She smiled underneath the cloth mask. It was time for her to pick her next two victims.

**XxX**

"I think we can assume that Moore is now out of the question of receiving police protection," Strahm said smartly. He and Perez had been studying the tape, and to their dismay, the hooded figure did not come out the front door. This had enraged Strahm, who was already on the edge. Perez was not entirely sure WHAT kind of edge Strahm was on, but whatever it was, it could not be anything good. She was really starting to get worried about him-judging from how thin he seemed to be getting, he wasn't eating much (or at all-THAT possibility disturbed Perez more than anything else)-his clothes seemed to sag off of him.

But she would remedy this. Of course she would. She didn't care if she had to tie Strahm to a chair and force-feed him, she would make sure he didn't wither away and disappear.

"So we're going to do nothing?" She now asked him incredulously. "We're going to let him die?" It was harsh, she knew, but she needed to be to get through to him.

Strahm glanced at her. "What CAN we do? He's already in Jigsaw's grasp. When we see him again, he'll be ripped apart, or...or..."

He was on the verge of a breakdown. Perez, slightly nervous, took his massive hand in her own and squeezed it. The gesture was small, but Strahm seemed to take comfort in it. He relaxed slightly-not a LOT, but a little, and that was enough. "We can still save the botanist," she said quietly. "It is obvious what we must do now."

**XxX**

Melanie watched, hidden in the dark blanket of the shadows, well hidden from prying eyes, as the man strolled down the alleyway, whistling cheerily. He carried a knife, and it glinted dully in the dying rays of the sun. Melanie swallowed. She would have to be careful if she was to poison this guy.

He deserved to die. He was a murderer, clearly. What normal man would carry around a knife?

Unless he was carrying it for protection...

No, she would have to do it. It didn't particularly matter what he did, or who he was...

Tucking a hand into her pocket, with her fingers curled around the syringe, she approached the man, walking at a slow, deliberate pace. She made no sound; the man would only be aware of Melanie once she was on top of him.

He continued to whistle, and she continued to drift after him, her hand sliding out from her pocket, revealing the syringe. She sped up her pace. She raised the syringe in front of her. She jabbed forward.

**XxX**

Hoffman was with John and Amanda once more-and he wasn't in deep shit anymore. He had been smart; he'd taken a spare change of clothes and, once Jill had been 'taught', he'd gotten changed. And now John had no reason to suspect.

Hoffman began to work on the Iron Chair once more, painfully aware of the fact that he had to have the trap finished before Amanda went out and captured Melanie-which she was preparing to do now.

As he tested the trap experimentally, making it fold in on itself, he began to think of the trap he had created for a certain old woman, a woman who went by the name of Sarah Skinner. He thought of the test he had created.

He smiled, and as he did so, his sister smiled along with him, flicking her hair back as she did so.

**XxX**

The end of the syringe buried itself deep into the man's neck. He cried out in pain and surprise, twisting away from Melanie. She moved with him, injecting all of the poison into his veins. He needed to get everything, otherwise he might survive. And that couldn't happen, no way in fucking hell could she let that happen.

He was considerably bigger than Melanie, and she had a hard time trying to keep the needle in his skin. He twisted and bucked, reaching behind him to try and reach Melanie, who avoided his blind attacks with ease. He began to make gurgling noises in his throat, as the poison began its' work. He shuddered violently, before he fell abruptly, taking Melanie down with him. She lost her hold on the syringe and landed awkwardly. Her right leg twisted up underneath her, and it screamed in pain. "No!" She shouted, before she realised that that was a mistake, she shouldn't have yelled, that the man might recognise her, but luckily, he was jerking on the ground and his skin was a deep purple colour.

Melanie, groaning with pain, slowly stood up, looking at her handiwork. It wasn't nearly as good as Kazza's method, or Ray's- she was not nearly as strong and so struggled with physical confrontations.

She watched him die, and she didn't feel anything at all, not even a scrap of glee or remorse. She felt...empty.

She felt empty because she was being forced to play a game where there was no possibility at all for her to win.

When the man had finally passed on, she pulled off her balaclava, revealing her sweaty, strained face. "Shit happens," she whispered.

That should have been the end of that stressful night, but, as Melanie turned to make her way home, someone dressed in black and red robes leapt out at her and struck out at her head. Melanie stumbled but managed to keep walking. Amanda, frustrated, grabbed either side of Melanie's head and forced her head against the wall, over and over again, until she was sure that Melanie would not be getting up again, at least not until she was in her trap.

Amanda smiled behind the pig mask. "Shit happens."


	10. The Iron Chair Trap

**September 22****nd****, 1997-The Iron Chair Trap.**

_Whoa-huh. Whoa-huh. Whoa-huh. _

These sounds: even in the haze, were ragged, desperate, filled with pain.

But sometimes, the sounds – like the pain- faded, and then there was only the haze. She remembered darkness: solid darkness had come before the haze. Did that mean she was making progress, or was she slipping further into unconsciousness? Let there be light (even of the shitty, hazy variety), and the light was good, and so on and so forth? Had those sounds existed in the darkness? She didn't know the answer to that question. Did it even make sense to be asking them? She didn't know the answer to that one, either.

The pain was somewhere below the sounds. It was west of the light. That was pretty much all she DID know.

Those sounds were the only outer reality. She had no idea where she was. She wished she were dead, but, in the pain-soaked haze that filled her mind like a summer storm-cloud, she did not know she wished it.

As time passed, she became aware that something was pressing in on her skin, quite possibly what was causing her so much discomfort. She also became aware that somehow, she was wet, like she had water on her or something. Unlike water, however; it was warm.

And it smelt coppery. Rusty. It smelt _wrong. _

Melanie stirred a little in the chair, _her _chair-the Iron Chair.

Beads of blood dripped from almost every inch of her skin. The chair- it had nails hammered into it, pointy bits upwards, and almost every single one of them were poking through the flesh of Melanie Dwyer, and that was the source of her discomfort.

It wasn't just her skin that hurt, Melanie mused to herself, still safely hidden in the painful haze, no, not just her skin: her head hurt as well.

Then, reality hit her like a ton of bricks-if she could think, could _know _how much her body hurt, then she was hardly in the haze any longer. If she could _know _these things-then she must be alright, she must be okay-

Melanie opened her eyes, and sucked in a great whooping gasp.

And then, she screamed, because she KNEW what she was sitting on, oh yes, she sure did. She was sitting on a device that had LONG gone out of fashion (or so she had thought) - The Chair of Torture. They were all different, Melanie knew, depending on what was available to make the chair in those times, but the point was all the same: make some poor soul sit on the chair, which was lined with nails, or blades, and keep them there until they died, which could last for up to three days, sometimes more, because, since the nails were actually IN your skin, they blocked most of the blood flow. It was a long, humiliating, PAINFUL way to die-and now it appeared that Melanie was going to die this way. "HELP ME! HELP ME, PLEASE!" She shouted, her hair plastered across her face, obscuring her vision. She tried to tug her arms, but she was strapped to the armrests, and, as she struggled, the nails dug in deeper, causing more blood to swell, and Melanie to scream louder. She tried to move her legs-but found that they were strapped to the chair as well. Every time she moved her legs, the nails dug in, and tore her skin just that little bit more. If she kept struggling, she would soon have long slashes in her wrists and calves, Melanie saw this with utter clarity.

There really was no other way to describe her situation now: She was fucked.

**XxX**

It was with a kind of mad, desperate hope that John Kramer, whose health was rapidly declining, watched the remaining monitor, clutching at the armrests of his 'wheelchair'. This was the final of the four-and he hoped that she would win, for John Kramer had an interest in Melanie Dwyer. Oh, yes, there was something about the former botanist that caught John's interest. She was smart, deceiving, cautious…and she looked before she leapt. She thought before she spoke. She did not seem particularly fragile-mentally at least.

Yes, Melanie Dwyer was certainly different than most people her age. And she was a cut apart from Amanda and Hoffman-perhaps even two cuts.

Yes, she certainly interested John Kramer indeed.

**XxX**

The old woman began to blink back tears, as she remembered the way the other woman on the other end of the line had begun to weep loudly. Sarah hadn't wanted to do it; oh no, Sarah Skinner hadn't a single bad bone in her entire body, and, no matter the age, she always hated to listen to people cry.

And, considering the news that Sarah had had to deliver, it was no real surprise that Melanie Dwyer had cried.

Sarah glanced down at the small, black object in her hand, and she began to weep herself.

**XxX**

"Melanie Jane Dwyer, age thirty-two, profession: botanist and residence is at fifty-two Krause street, Mayfield-"

"Enough!" Strahm barked, holding one hand up to stop Detective Fisk from going on, while scribbling down Melanie's address with the other. Fisk, being the good cop he was, obeyed without question. He was also slightly afraid of Strahm, though he was not without good reason- Strahm had barged in here, looking like a shadow of his former, polished self, and had demanded that someone, ANYONE, get him the postal address for Melanie Jane Dwyer.

While Fisk was a good cop and did as he told, Allison Kerry, however, had more courage. "What exactly is this about?" She asked, her voice quiet but also somehow loud, and sharp, though she hadn't meant it to be so.

Perez sucked in a deep breath. When Strahm was on a roll, you just didn't go up to him and question his methods-she had learnt that the hard way. Oh, he hadn't hurt her, or anything like that, but, if what he was studying was important to him, he would simply get up and walk away, scowling. This is what she expected Strahm to do now-walk away from Kerry, and complete the rest of his research alone.

However, he surprised Perez by smiling darkly at Kerry. "What this is about," he began, a fanatical gleam in his eyes, "Is that three of the original four friends are dead, and all of tem have been abducted by Jigsaw. Now, the fourth one is still alive, and, if we can assign police protection to her, we might be that little bit closer to capturing Jigsaw and Amanda Young."

"You think this scientist knows where Jigsaw is?" Kerry asked sceptically.

Strahm's mouth twitched-his charade was fading, and fast. He was becoming annoyed with Kerry. _"No," _he said sharply. "But either Jigsaw or Amanda Young will come for her, and if she's protected, then we'll finally have them!"

Even Kerry couldn't argue with Strahm's logic, though it wasn't like she could really argue with him anyway-she was homicide, and he was part of the FBI. FBI outranked homicide by a long shot. Strahm had more authority than she did.

"Should we check now?" Perez asked her partner. "It's daylight. Neither jigsaw nor Amanda ever strikes while it's daylight- the risk of being seen is too high."

Strahm smiled at her rather darkly. Perez noticed that he was playing with his pistol again. "Yes," he said simply. "We should go right away."

**XxX**

There was something odd about the strap biding her on her right wrist. It felt…looser than the others. "What the fuck?" Melanie asked, not really expecting an answer. She pulled her wrist back. To her surprise and delight, the strap gave a little.

Melanie began to laugh-raw, hysterical laughter that was more frightening than screaming. Why was she laughing? Melanie figured that she couldn't be in a Jigsaw trap, if there was a faulty arm strap- Jigsaw NEVER made mistakes regarding his victims' immobility. She must be in an inferior trap-and, if she could pull her hand out, then whoever made it must not have a very clear idea of what exact Jigsaw did.

Of course, Melanie hadn't an EXACT idea of what Jigsaw did, of just how elaborate his plans were, of the amount of research that had to be done, how much planning... went into everything…

Planning. Melanie liked to plan, and she did it extremely well- better than most people. What if Jigsaw was simply playing on her disbeliefs, messing with her head? It was something he would do.

The reason why Melanie knew so much about Jigsaw was that she had spent countless hours researching him, and occasionally his apprentice, Amanda Young. But while John Kramer intrigued (and disturbed) Melanie, Amanda struck her as uninteresting. She never thought anything out; she simply acted on impulse, and that was hardly the best way to be.

Yes-Melanie remembered staying up past midnight on most nights, researching John Kramer on the internet, reading newspaper clippings she'd torn out of unread newspapers, and watching the news, when the newsreaders occasionally dared to announce that yes, another person was dead, and it had been the maniac that carved jigsaw-shaped pieces out of people, yes, it was the Jigsaw Killer. Melanie had done her research, and, while the methods of which Jigsaw used to get his point across disgusted her, she could see the reasoning behind it all: so many people ignored or wasted the gifts they had been given, wasting the lives their lives on simple, stupid things, and not caring about the outcomes. The fucking outcomes. How could you NOT think about the fucking OUTCOMES, for fuck's sake!

A television set, set directly across from her, so that she would not be able to miss it, flickered on, and the all-too-familiar Jigsaw puppet crept into view. Unlike most of the video tapes, (which Melanie had READ about, but not SEEN), the puppet was on a tricycle. It was chalk-white, with red lips, red eyes, and red spirals that substituted as cheeks. It was facing to the let, but, as Melanie watched with a kind of sick fascination, it turned it head to face her, creaking as it did so.

There was a moment of silence, in which Melanie used to continue observing the puppet almost thoughtfully, before it opened its mouth, and it began to speak:

"Hello, Melanie. I want to play a game. Most people see you as a respected botanist who has never harmed another person. But I see you as someone who is going down the wrong path- the path which liars, thieves, and murderers tread. You're not a true killer, are you? I see the pain, the revulsion on your face, as you kill for a man who has already been killed. You know better than anyone the price of taking a life away, yet you continue to do it, in the hopes of relieving your pain. I give you a chance to rid yourself of this pain for ever. The device you are sitting upon I like to refer to as the 'Iron Chair.' The nails pressing in upon your skin are doing so lightly, for the moment. One of your arm restraints is looser than the others. It is with this arm that you will save yourself, and be instantly rehabilitated. A key is needed to free your legs and remaining arm-to get it, simply reach behind yourself and take it. But be warned-when you do not look before you leap, it comes with a price. This is where the poison Curare comes into play-you of all people should know its devastating effects on the human body. It will paralyse you within a matter of seconds…and you will be forced to sit lightly until the device folds in on itself, mangling your body in a similar way an iron maiden would. Live or die, Melanie. Make your choice."

The television set turned off, and Melanie was left staring at a blank screen. Beside her, a timer began to tick. Melanie stared at it. It was set for sixty seconds.

**XxX**

Hoffman was pleased with his handiwork- the trap had worked exactly as planned. John was pleased with him as well-it had been a rather difficult trap to make, as Hoffman had had to modify the chair in several ways, to make the trap dangerous and to make it move ceaselessly, ensuring that there was no escape from it, unless the scientist followed the rules.

Hoffman smiled. Her friends hadn't followed the rules, so what were the chances of Melanie escaping from the Iron Chair?

Very slim, he thought, as he watched the monitor over John's shoulder, his eyes narrowed, and his mouth curving into a slight smile. Yes, her chances were very slim. There was no way she was going to escape. The four criminals were finally finished-Hoffman could rest, at last. Well, for a WHILE, at least-no doubt John would find more people to be tested, and he, Hoffman would be put to work once again, Amanda as well, perhaps.

Of course, that was always assuming she didn't end up killing herself-Hoffman had seen the cuts on her wrists and thighs, something that John had missed, or simply ignored.

Neither Hoffman nor Angelina knew why John was quite so interested in Melanie. She was a coward-and Hoffman believed, whole-heartedly, that she did not deserve to be alive.

But, unlike Amanda, he did not tamper with traps. He would play by the rules, and simply hope that she would fail her test, and be crushed on the chair. Yes, Hoffman would play by the rules.

For a little longer, anyway.

**XxX**

Perez had never seen her partner so agitated. He was literally hunched over the steering wheel, glaring at the stoplights. They were on red, and had been for quite some time, much to Strahm's dismay. He was clenching the wheel so hard that his knuckles were white. The beginning of a moustache was making itself known on his face, and he looked very ill indeed. Perez had in fact forced him to eat a sandwich before departing for the botanists' dwelling, fearing for his health, which appeared to be rapidly declining. She got him to drink half a bottle of spring water, which he took willingly enough. She knew this was not enough, but he would not take any more. She would have to make him eat later, provided a chance arose. Somehow, she doubted if there would be a chance once they arrived at the house of the sought-after Melanie Dwyer.

Beads of sweat dripped down Strahm's forehead, as he stared at the stoplight, wishing for the fucking thing to turn green already.

Mercifully, it did, and Strahm, who was no fool, slammed his foot down on the gas. His blue Volvo shot forward and nosed its way around the streets, Strahm pounding on the horn a fair few times, scaring adolescents on skateboards out of the street. "Come on, come on…" he would mutter whenever he did this.

They trundled into Melanie's street.

**XxX**

The phone rang. Sarah, now sobbing by this stage, fumbled for it, her wrinkled hands sliding over it several times before she could get a good hold on it. She was terrified of whom it might be; she had a pretty damn good idea who it was.

"Hello?"

For a moment, there was complete silence, and then, a deep, masculine voice answered her. It was cold, and made Sarah think of dark, never-ending tunnels.

"Hello, Sarah. I want to play a game."

Sarah began to sob, staring at the cassette player in her hand-it was the same voice, all right-but what had she done wrong? She had played by the rules, hadn't she? So why was he calling back? "Wha-what do you WANT from me?" She shouted into the phone. "I've done it; I've played your game! Now give me my grandchildren back, damn you!"

The voice was silent for a moment. "Nan?" A small voice asked, her voice thick with fear. Sarah softened her tone.

"Taylor, is that you, honey?"

"Yes."

"Don't worry, honey, everything's going to be al-"

"He has a gun," Taylor said calmly. Sarah almost smiled-that was her Taylor, as calm as always. She never freaked out about anything-Sarah could count the number of times her sixteen-year-old granddaughter had shouted, screamed on one hand. Taylor was a good girl. "He is pointing the gun between my eyes, Nan. He says he's going to fucking shoot us if you don't play by the rules."

Sarah began to wheeze in her distress. "Put him back on, Tay-Tay," she whispered, feeling her heart sink. Why, oh WHY, did this have to be happening? She had already played one game, but now, he wanted her to play another…

"The rules are simple, Sarah. Abide by them, and you will have your grandchildren back, unharmed. If you choose to disobey, your grandchildren will die, and you will as well. Are you going to play by the rules, Sarah?" The voice was eerily calm, and slightly cheerful.

"Y-yes."

"That's good," the voice replied cheerfully. "That's VERY good, Sarah! Now, listen, if you will: there are rules…"

**XxX**

The chair had begun to creak ominously, and Melanie, now afraid by this stage, began to scream. "HELP ME! HELP ME, PLEASE! PLEASE HELP ME! _PLEASE!" _

Of course, there was no answer. Had she been expecting one?

The nails dug in deeper, and Melanie screamed louder, feeling as though her throat might tear. _"FUCKING GET ME OUT OF HERE, YOU FUCKING BASTARD!" _Blood began to steadily drip down her body, as the nails dug in a little deeper, and they began to tear through flesh. _"NO!" _Melanie screamed, although she knew that YES, yes she had to do it, if she wanted to live. She had to reach for the key and free herself, before the chair crushed her to death.

Grimacing, she jerked her right wrist backwards, slowly easing it out of the straps that bound her to the nails. She screamed, as the nails dragged along her wrist, slowly, painfully, peeling it open. Blood flowed more freely here-she would have to hurry if she didn't want to start bleeding like a fucking pig.

Her knuckles caught on the strap. Her breath caught, as she jerked her hand back again and again, the nails sliding into her flesh happily, gouging it, opening it…

Her hand came free. _"FUCK, YES!" _She shouted, holding it in front of her-it was raw and bloody, and it hurt something terrible, but she had freed her arm, at least. She was proud of herself. "Now, the key…" she murmured, flexing her wrist, wincing at the pain it brought. She tried to glance behind herself, to see where the key might be, but her head movements were limited-the nails were pressing on her head lightly, and, when she turned her head, her face was grazed by dozens of rusty, filthy nails. One of them caught her cheek and left a long, bloody scratch there; blood cam thick and fast, dripping down the side of her face, obscuring her vision on that side. "FUCK!" She shouted angrily, and, because her time was running out, she plunged her hand behind her, into the unknown.

It was met by thin air. "No, no..." she whispered wetly, glancing at the timer-she had about fifteen seconds left, if that. She didn't know-she couldn't exactly see very well.

Her hand reached up, and up, until…

Melanie screamed in pain, as the cruel, curved edge of the razor dug into the flesh of her wrist. She had only pressed against tit lightly, yet already, beads of blood began to appear. But, aside from the blood oozing from her wound, there was another liquid mingling with her blood. The Curare. Melanie shuddered. Curare was a primitive poison, and it did its job in a mater of seconds-paralysing the muscles so they were unable to contract. It caused death in small birds in less than ten seconds. Humans would last a little longer, but she, Melanie, would be crushed before she died of the poison.

But she had no choice. She had to complete her task; she HAD to!

So she reached up again, feeling the razor slice through her skin easily, and then it began to cut through muscle, yet she still reached, and the timer continued to tick…

**XxX**

Perez knocked on the door. "Miss Dwyer?" She inquired nervously. "Miss Dwyer, are you there?"

Strahm brushed her aside. "Let me, Lindsey," he said, bending over the doorknob, blocking Perez's view. The act reminded her of the hooded figure who had attacked the pyromaniac. Seeing Strahm do it was somewhat disconcerting.

The door swung open easily. Strahm smiled at Perez slightly, obviously pleased with himself. Then, he was back in business, and yes, there was his pistol, out of its pocket, in both of Strahm's hands, ready for anything. "Miss Dwyer?" He shouted, entering the dwelling. "Miss Dwyer, its Special Agent Peter Strahm of the FBI! I'm not here to harm you. We're here to assign you protection. If you come out now we can talk it over!"

There was no reply. Perez, nervous, inched in behind Strahm and shut the door behind her. "Miss Dwyer?" She inquired, also taking out her weapon-a revolver. "Miss Dwyer, we're here to help you."

Still no reply. "Is she out?" Perez asked. Strahm glared at her for a moment.

"Not likely," was all he said. He moved further in, taking in everything, missing nothing, looking for any traces of the scientist, the scientist who was next-the next intended Jigsaw victim. He saw that her laptop was turned on, and he also saw a pack of two-minute noodles lying beside the kettle. "Not many people go to start preparing a meal and then opt out for a walk," he said, a slight sneer on his face. "Her computer is on. She was obviously in the middle of something when she decided to go out."

Perez had to agree with that one. "Should we check the rest of her home?"

"I think that is best," Strahm answered. "Anything she might have lying around, might be of interest." He reached a carpet-coveted stairwell. "Up or down, Lindsey?" He asked. Perez pointed down-to her, it seemed like a more likely place for Dwyer to have anything of interest lying around.

So the two agents edged downstairs, weapons at the ready, unsure of what they would find.

**XxX**

Her fingers touched the key. _"YES!" _She shouted, curling her bloodied fingers around it and yanking down-she missed the razor, thankfully, but not by much. She brought her arm back to the front, and fumbled to fit the key in the keyhole on the strap on her left arm. The key, slippery with blood, kept nearly slipping out of her grasp. But she couldn't drop it now-she COULDN'T!

The key went inside the keyhole. Melanie twisted it to the side, and her arm was free, and she was laughing again, that same hysterical, frightening laughter, as she bent down (the timer now read five seconds left to go) and undid her right leg, and then her left, and then she was diving forward, her skin being ripped away from the nails, the hundreds upon hundreds of holes oozing blood now, and she was still laughing when the chair went off. It folded in on itself, not two seconds after Melanie had pulled herself off of it-the back folded in on the seat, and, Melanie saw that if she hadn't been as fast as she was, the nails would have been driven through her skull, and every other part of her body.

The laughter turned into horrified sobs, as she realized this-that she had been literally two seconds from death. Melanie knelt on the ground and she wept. "Kael…" she whispered, blood trickling from a corner of her mouth-she'd grazed it on the ground when she had thrown herself from the trap. She raised a hand to her mouth, but found she could raise it all the way. "No…" she whimpered, realisation hitting her like a ton of bricks.

She had escaped the trap, but she had not escaped the poison.

**XxX**

John was proud of Melanie. He was so proud that she had actually managed to follow the rules and complete her trap. He smiled. "Amanda," he began. Amanda was there in an instant, ready to help. He coughed twice, his body shuddering. "Take me to her," he ordered. Amanda nodded.

As he was being wheeled down to Melanie, John's hand closed around a syringe.

**XxX**

"A laboratory," Perez said, surprised. She had seen some things in her time-but she had never seen a laboratory in someone's home, and certainly not as complicated as this. Papers were strewn everywhere, and there were vials upon vials of different liquids, some clear, some red, some white, but all of them dangerous, Perez knew.

"Holy shit," was what Strahm had to contribute. He stood in the doorway, pistol still held at the ready.

Suddenly, a high-pitched, chilling cackle. Strahm and Perez whirled around, staring at the middle of the room, as a puppet they knew only too well rode out on a red tricycle. It stopped when it was facing them, and continued to cackle evilly, the sound ringing from the walls. "Jesus!" Strahm shouted, his fingers tightening on the trigger of his gun.

"Wait!" Perez shouted. "Look!"

Around the puppets neck was a cassette player. Perez reached fro it, but Strahm took her arm and held her back.

"Don't," he warned her, his face oddly excited. He moved forwards, gun aimed directly between the puppet's eyes. He feinted a grab for the player, obviously testing to see if anything would happen if he did reach for it. Nothing happened, except that the puppet continued laughing at them.

"Fuck," Strahm muttered, taking the cassette player, which read 'play me.' He pressed play, and the raspy voice of John Kramer answered them:

"Game over."

Strahm stared at the puppet incredulously. His anger simmered, and ten went past boiling point. Gripping the sides of his head, he dropped his gun. "FUCK THIS SHIT!" He screamed.

The puppet continued to laugh at them.

**XxX**

Melanie lay on the floor, unable to move. She could still hear, and see, but she couldn't move a goddamn inch.

"Hello, Melanie."

Has she been able to start and scream, she would have most certainly have done so.

"You think you know me?" The voice continued. "You know nothing."

The jab of a syringe, a jolt of pain, and then…


	11. Redemption

**September 22****nd****, 1997- Redemption. **

...nothing.

Melanie, to her amazement, did not die, nor did anything else happen to her. She remained sprawled on the floor, the many puncture marks in her skin dribbling ominously. She looked quite pathetic, just lying there on the ground, her face streaked with a combination of blood and tears. The gash across her face stung something terrible, and Melanie, grimacing, raised a hand to the wound, pressing her fingers against the blood, feeling it squelch between her shuddering fingers.

Even that small motion took unnecessary effort-yet the fact that she COULD raise her hand to the gash definitely meant something. It meant that the syringe buried deep in her shoulder contained an antidote to the Curare-that was the only possible, LOGICAL reason why she, Melanie, could move at all.

Was this the face's way of congratulating her?

As Melanie Jane Dwyer looked up into that face, she felt not fear, but a kind of cruel understanding, for she KNEW who that face was-she would know that face anywhere.

She was staring up at the face of John Kramer.

**XxX**

Special Agent Lindsey Perez had known that her partner, Peter Strahm, had been hovering on the edge for some time, but it still came as a shock when he dropped to his knees, clutching at the sides of his head, and began to scream obscenities at the puppet, at Jigsaw, at Amanda, at them all. He was crying, Perez noted, approaching him with much-needed caution, her hand hovering over her pistol. She did not intend to shoot her partner, of course not, but if he got out of control and for some strange reason thought SHE was Amanda or Jigsaw...

She would have no choice but to protect herself.

"Peter?" She asked nervously, easing his hands off of his head-tufts of hair were in danger of being ripped out entirely-and taking them in her own. "Peter, calm down..."

Miraculously, he did. Relaxing slightly at Perez's contact, he stared into her face, and she recoiled. The face staring back at her was not the same man she had joined forces with two years ago. This new face-it was someone she did not recognize, someone who looked like they had seen hell-which, Perez reminded herself, he more or less had. He was horribly pale. Dark, almost black, circles were underneath his eyes. He was unshaven. His clothes hung off of him like a sack-no, perhaps even worse, although Perez could not think of a better way to describe it. "Lindsey..." he whispered, his voice raspy from all the shouting he had done. "Lindsey, we're too late."

"I'm sorry, Peter."

He gave a humourless laugh. "He knew," he murmured. "Jigsaw knew that we were going after Dwyer. He must have."

The puppet continued to cackle evilly from its perch atop the red tricycle. Perez, sparing it a second glance, made a disgusted face, as she remembered the chilling words that had finally driven Strahm over the edge-'Game over.'

Where was that blasted cassette player, anyway?

After scanning the room briefly, glancing into corners, she found it. It was by Strahm's left thigh. Still holding his hand gently, Perez snatched at it, fearing that her partner would make a grab for it, but-

"Peter." Her voice was oddly excited. "Peter, look."

"What?" He asked sullenly.

Perez waved the player in front of his face. It did not really seem to register with him-she may as well have tapped his nose for all the notice he took. "It's still playing," she said, hoping that this might bring him to life, but to no effect.

"So?"

"Wait a minute, Peter. I think there's more to the tape than we heard, but Christ, I can't hear with that damned puppet laughing its ass off over there."

"Want me to dispose of it?" He asked. The request was not as lively as Perez had hoped, but it was a start. And a start was enough for Perez-goddammit, it HAD to be.

"Please."

While Strahm busied himself with attacking the puppet, Perez retreated to a corner, hunched over the player. It was still playing, indicating that the tape was quite long. Sitting down, she rewound the tape, back to the start. Holding it to her ear, she listened intently. Heavy breathing, with a slight cough somewhere in the middle. And then, the dreaded words: 'Game over.' Perez strained to continue listening. More heavy breathing. And then, in a VERY hushed tone, were the words:

'_To decipher the beginning, you must arrive at the end.'_

"Holy shit..." Perez whispered, as Strahm finally finished off the puppet, his face shining with sweat. As Perez watched, he whipped out a handkerchief, and wiped his brow for what had to be the tenth time that day. He seemed to sense her scrutiny, for he turned around, raising an eyebrow as he did so.

"What?" He accessed her expression, and the creases in his brow deepened with worry. "Lindsey, what is it?"

"There was more," she whispered, gesturing to the player. "There was more, Peter, and I believe Jigsaw wants us to follow his footsteps."

He stared back at her. "You're fucking joking."

**XxX**

"Congratulations," John said, hand still curled around the syringe in Melanie's shoulder. Amanda hovered in the background, ready to assist should the scientist bitch try and kill John. "Most people are so ungrateful to be alive, but not you. Not anymore." He began to cough, and Amanda let out a frightened squeak of worry for her mentor, which John chose to ignore. He fixed his watery eyes on Melanie. "You know why you're here, don't you?"

Melanie willed her pain-racked body into a sitting position. Now she and John were seeing eye to eye-literally. She was not afraid, exactly, but she was weary. She saw Amanda in the background, the emotional junkie, scowling at her, fingering a .44 pistol. Did that mean that Melanie was destined to die today?

She hoped that that was not the case.

"You take anti-depressant pills. You take lives away, in the hope that your own will improve. Like you, I know what it is like to lose a loved one. I know what it's like to realize that if you had simply intervened at the right time, they would still be alive...It's a powerless feeling."

Though she admired John for his ideology, the fact that he was the one who had murdered her lover, Kael Simons, did not escape her. "What the fuck do you want from me?" She asked, quite rudely, yet John did not seem to notice, or, if he did, he chose to ignore it, something Amanda certainly was not doing-she had pulled out her .44 and was aiming it between Melanie's eyes, ready to fire should the need arise.

John smiled darkly. "How does it feel, Melanie, to feel someone die by your hand? To feel them spasm and choke beneath you? Does it relieve your pain? Do you truly feel better, after feeling innocent people die in your arms?"

Melanie, furious, did not reply. She and Amanda were staring each other down, the hate evident in both pairs of eyes. Melanie shifted slightly, and yes, the .44 moved with her, tracking her movements precisely.

"You and I are not so different," John whispered, pulling the syringe out abruptly. Melanie grimaced at the sudden bite of pain that this action incurred, but said nothing. She was determined not to give Amanda any reason to shoot her, because Melanie Jane Dwyer did not want to die. She wanted to live. John coughed into his free hand, his frail body shuddering slightly, though not nearly as violently as he had been like before. Amanda was not sure if she should be relieved or concerned about this. "Except that I, unlike you, have never killed anyone. I give people a chance."

"You call this a chance?" Melanie hissed furiously, balling her bloodstained hands into fists. She jabbed a finger at Amanda, who still held the gun steady, her expression somewhat disgusted.

Oh, yes. Amanda Young was disgusted by the fact that John thought he had to have more than one apprentice-it was if he didn't trust her! What was that saying? 'Two's company, but three's a crowd.' That was EXACTLY how she felt about Mark Hoffman, and now John wanted to...to...Oh, Amanda could hardly comprehend it. She could not, no, WOULD not accept it-

"If this is a chance, then why is she ready to shoot me like a fucking ANIMAL?"

Ugh. That fucking stupid bitch was REALLY pissing Amanda off. Her finger twitched on the trigger, and she decided to jump in before John could reply to the fucking bitches' demands. "Someone's got to make sure you follow the rules," she said snidely, approaching Melanie, who flinched. John was frowning at her, but she, Amanda, would make her voice be heard. Even if she ended up disappointing John, it would all be worth it in the end.

Amanda, now not five paces away, smiled humourlessly. "If I were you, I'd follow the goddamn rules."

John, slightly annoyed, chose to ignore his apprentice. When she got like this...there was no stopping her. She was precious to him, but her emotion would eventually be her downfall. She acted on impulse too often.

"Our game's just begun," he informed Melanie, who appeared puzzled by the statement.

"_Our _game? You don't even fucking KNOW me!"

John chuckled. "Oh yes, I know you. I followed you as you pursued me. I know about Kael. I know how much you loved him. I know he was the only person you ever truly cared about. You blame yourself for his death. You believe he would have been better off if he had remained in prison. You take pills so that you can sleep without nightmares. You kill to try and take out your own pain onto others, to try and relieve yourself of the depression that pursues you. Oh, yes. I know you. And I know what you have done."

"So you're threatening me." It had to be said, hadn't it?

"No! No, no, no. This is...redemption." His trembling finger lightly traced over the gash on her cheek, his expression sombre. "I can show you a way that will permit you to sleep at night, permit you to live without the constant guilt you feel. Do you want that, Melanie? Do you want to be able to live without pain? It's entirely up to you. Make your choice."

Melanie paused. It wasn't as if she could say no, was it? If she said so, Amanda would shoot her like a dog, and there'd be no remorse in her face as she did so, only...joy.

Well then, that left only one option left, didn't it?

Amanda chewed the inside of her cheek, causing blood to swell, as Melanie pondered her choice.

**XxX**

"To decipher the beginning, you must arrive at the end." Strahm repeated the words for what must have been the hundredth time that day, as he leaned over a stack of papers, upon most he had scribbled upon, trying to decipher what the message said. It was a clue, all right-and a fucking big one it must be, if Jigsaw had left it in the Dwyer residence.

Dwyer. Strahm sighed, mopping his brow yet again. There was no question that the Dwyer woman was dead-she would have been caught in a trap of some sort, and then that would have been the end of her. The poor girl...

But what the FUCK did that message mean? "To decipher the beginning, you must arrive at the end," Strahm said again, mulling it over. The first segment of the message he understood. To decipher the beginning obviously meant to solve the puzzle of the Jigsaw legacy, but the second part simply escaped Strahm. "Arrive at the end," he murmured, scrawling those words on yet another piece of paper. "Arrive at the fucking END."

Perez watched Strahm pore over numerous bits of paper through the small bit of glass on his office door. She sighed. She liked Peter, hell, she would even go so far as to say that she admired him, but she was not so sure that he should stay on the case. The man was obsessing, and incredibly unhealthy. It would be better for him in the long run if she went now and told Erickson the situation.

Yes, that seemed the best course of action now. Erickson would take Peter off the case, and Peter could recover, while she, Perez, deciphered the riddle Jigsaw had left for them.

Yes, she would do just that. "I'm sorry, Peter," she whispered, touching the glass on his door with the palm of her hand softly, before turning and notifying Cowan that she needed to see Erickson.

**XxX**

Hoffman observed the old woman escape from the Dwyer dwelling, bawling like a fucking baby, holding her cassette player aloft. He smiled darkly. She had played by the rules.

Now, hopefully, the Dwyer woman was dead.

Hoffman had done the one thing Amanda had overlooked- he had anticipated the possibilities, every single one of them. And it was good he had done that-because, if he had not intervened, the Dwyer woman would have gone to the police and then it would have been almost impossible for ANYONE-John, Amanda, or he, Hoffman-to reach her. So Hoffman had had no choice but to ensure that she played by the rules.

So he had gotten the old woman he had seen the psychopath conversing with to play a little game of her own, to ensure that the Dwyer woman would follow the rules and be able to be caught. The game was simple: send a few photographs of the swollen bodies that the Dwyer woman had used for her 'experiments', and use this information against her, threatening to hand her in to the police, thus ruining her entire 'career' and having her ass rot in a prison cell. Hoffman had gotten the old woman to ring Dwyer and tell her this, because you never could be sure if the lines were bugged or not. If someone were to discover that he, Hoffman, was an apprentice to Jigsaw...

He frowned, hunching over the steering wheel of his car-which was black-and squinted to see the woman clearly. Beside him, the hostage squirmed in her seat, unable to see or speak, because of the blindfold and gag Hoffman had administered on her. She was sixteen, and the grandchild of the old bitch ambling down the street. If the old bitch didn't follow the rules, Hoffman would shoot the girl between the eyes, much the same way he had done to Jill Tuck. Her head would simply explode, and the old woman would be next. As for majority of John's tests, the penalty for failure was death. Hoffman would teach the old woman as well, teach her the consequences of failing the game. It was funny, wasn't it, that in school you were taught to 'follow the rules', yet hardly ANYBODY seemed to remember that. Most of them failed.

As a nice finishing touch, (which, as Angelina had pointed out to him, was not completely necessary but still a nice touch nevertheless) he had also sent the Dwyer woman a photograph of her boyfriend, the psychopath, lying in a puddle of his own blood, with the collar around his neck. To further his intentions across, he had scrawled on the back of the photo, with a fountain pen, the words 'THE PROMISE HAS BEEN BROKEN'.

Yes, the whole point of the old woman's game was to ensure that the Dwyer woman continued to kill, even though she KNEW that her boyfriend was dead, and she was killing for nobody but herself. And that alone ensured that she would end up in a trap, and she would die, oh YES, she would die, and Hoffman only wished that he was there watching it, watching HER die, as the nails drove through her skull, and her brain, and she began to spasm, very much like her victims had-

The hostage kicked Hoffman in the thigh. It did not hurt, but it awoke him from his reverie. Scowling, he pulled the pig mask on, over his face, and he reached for a handgun. As a 'detective' of the police force, he had access to a range of weapons-most of which he carried with him now. Handguns, pistols, shotguns, rifles...Hoffman was certainly prepared, if not a little TOO prepared.

He placed the handgun between the girls' eyes. "Do that again, motherfucker, and I'll teach you a lesson you'll never fucking forget." He grinned beneath the mask. "I'm good at teaching, believe me."

The girl whimpered through her gag. Hoffman held the gun steady. "Are you going to behave?" He asked. When she did not reply, his temper flared. "Come ON! Yes or no answer?"

Angelina, perched in the backseat, was smiling cheekily.

The hostage, afraid, nodded. Hoffman relaxed. "Good girl."

Sarah Skinner was now halfway down the street, still gripping her player tightly to her breast.

**XxX**

Special Agent Erickson was perched on his computer, re-reading a report, when someone knocked on his door, the knocks sharp and brisk. "Come in," Erickson commanded.

Cowan entered, holding a few papers abreast. "Sir, it's Agent Perez," she said, waving Perez forward, who was not at all happy with what she was about to do, but absolutely convinced that it was necessary.

"Thank you," Erickson said, more than a little surprised. Perez never came to see him if she could help it. She liked to feel that if she was in control, then there would be no problems, which suited Erickson just fine. He had had a lot on his plate lately-running errands, writing reports, assisting others...

He realized that Cowan was still in the room, and, while he acknowledged her dedication, it did bother him a little that he had to dismiss her like a child most of the time-could she not take a hint? "That'll be all," he told her.

She nodded smartly. "Yes, sir," she replied, shutting the door behind her gently.

Now that Cowan was out of the way, Erickson turned to the problem at hand: Perez. "You wanted to see me, Lindsey?" He asked, curiosity etched deeply in his aging face-he was in fact only entering his early fifties- years of horrible discoveries tended to age people before their time.

Perez seemed nervous. She was wringing her hands, and she looked everywhere but at Erickson. What was wrong with her? Surely she wasn't confessing to something?

"Um, yes," she finally managed. Erickson was shocked to see that her face sparkled with early tears. "It's about Peter."

"Agent Strahm," Erickson sighed. There was no doubt about it, Peter was a fucking GREAT addition to the FBI, but the man tended to get too obsessive. He was also hot-tempered, and got aggravated VERY easily. In fact, the man reminded Erickson strongly of a detective in the police force, a man who went by the name of Eric Mathews. He too, was hot-headed, and resorted to violence when reasoning kicked the bucket. "What's the problem?"

Perez felt horrible for doing this to Peter, but it was for his own good. "He's...obsessing over the case, Erickson. Normally I wouldn't bother you with this but...He's not healthy. He's not looking after himself. He's unshaven. He's as white as a ghost. And he's losing weight. I...I touched his back, Erickson, and he's just lost so MUCH weight. It's...I don't think he should be on the Jigsaw case for a while. He needs to recover."

"You think he should be taken off the case?" Erickson asked. Yes, he knew that Perez had just said that, but needed confirmation. To remove Strahm from the case was a recipe for disaster- the man was a legend, in terms of logical thinking.

Perez nodded. "Not permanently, but long enough for him to..."

Erickson nodded. "Well, I'll look into it," he said, rather feebly-he did not really what to say in this sort of situation. "Thank you for coming to me with this, Lindsey."

Perez smiled faintly, and made to open the door, and actually had it partway open before she remembered something of great importance. "Erickson, there was something else I needed to tell you," she said, hastily closing the door with a snap.

"Yes?"

"Jigsaw left us a message," she said. "And I think he's calling out to us, Erickson."

Erickson's curiosity went sky-high. "Could I take a look at the tape, Lindsey?" He asked eagerly. Perez reached into the pocket of her blazer, and pulled out a baggie that contained the dubious cassette player, which still had the tape inside of it- Perez had been careful not to damage it. Erickson took the baggie, and pressed play, raising it to his ear as he did so.

His expression changed from one of curiosity to one of confusion, and then, finally, to one of shock, as he listened to the chilling riddle Jigsaw had left for them, the FBI.

**XxX**

"What do I do?" Sarah sobbed; she was completely unaware of the fact that Hoffman, her tormentor, was but a few feet away, with her grandchild beside him. She hiccupped. "What d-do I do?"

She walked a little farther down the street, her feet feeling as though she was walking over glass-she was wearing bed socks, and nothing else-she had been in her nightclothes when she had received the call, the call to play another game. She tripped on an upraised tree root-down she went. She landed on her knees, much the same way small children often did. Unlike small children, however, she could not get back up. Her body was racked with so much pain that she found it impossible to lift her body up from the ground.

There was wetness. Sarah had skinned her knees, and the blood was soaking the edge of her nightgown, staining it crimson.

She began to weep, her entire body shaking, and she was trying to stop herself from shaking, because it hurt, but she couldn't it, and oh, she was in such a MESS!

The player had landed beside her. Thankfully, it had not broken. Sarah didn't want it to break, because that player contained the tape which told her what the rules were. She couldn't forget the rules, and Sarah, in her old age, constantly forgot them, which was why she had been carrying the player around with her.

Simply because had no idea what to do now that she could not get up from the ground, Sarah reached for the player.

Her trembling fingers glided over it, until they found the 'play' button. She pressed it.

The chilling voice she had heard dozens of times issued from the player once more:

"_Hello, Sarah. I want you to make a choice. There's a slow-acting poison coursing through your veins, which only I have the antidote for. Your aim in this game is to assist me in capturing a vigilante, by ensuring that she follows the rules. Will you assist a 'murderer' capture another? For if you do not, then Taylor and Blake will die, and you will succumb to the effects of the poison-your innards will begin to liquefy, and no amount of drugs will be able to cease your pain. Live or die, Sarah. Make your choice." _


	12. Freedom

**September 23****rd****, 1997- Freedom.**

Amanda was pissed off. She absolutely could NOT believe that John now had THREE apprentices-her, Hoffman, and that fucking Dwyer slut.

WHY did he have to ask her to join him? Why could he not have simply let her succumb to the poison, and die? It would have been fitting, and besides, that bitch deserved it. She hadn't changed one bit since the trap- she was the same stupid, cruel, psychopathic whore. And yet John thought she had changed! The idea was absolutely ludicrous. When Hoffman returned from whatever the hell he was doing, Amanda would take it up with him, despite her loathing of the former detective. Compared to the Dwyer bitch, she liked Hoffman more- and that went to show just how much she hated Melanie, because she was absolutely REPULSED by Mark Hoffman.

Yes, she thought, as she dug under her mattress, searching for the bundle she always kept, in times of intense stress. The bundle held the items that relieved her pain, since she obviously could not go back to using heroin. Amanda thought that even if she COULD go back to using heroin, she wouldn't- that would disappoint John, and besides, the thought of sticking herself with a needle repulsed her. She had taken part in a game not too long ago, where she had been thrown into a pit filled with dirty syringes, to find a key for Xavier Chavez, a drug dealer John had been testing. She remembered the stabs of pain, as over a hundred needles pricked her skin, and they weren't the type of needles you got at the doctors, all clean and sterile, they were dirty and used- some even had BLOODSTAINS on them!

Amanda often woke from dreams relating to that experience screaming. It would often take a while before she could calm herself down, and sometimes she would search for the bundle, because, sometimes, that was the only way to slow her heart rate, to relax, as the blade bit into her flesh, deeper if she was feeling particularly anxious, or angry, or depressed.

Upon finding the bundle, Amanda smiled. For a moment, she had thought she had lost it. Glancing around surreptitiously, making sure John or that Dwyer bitch was around, she unwrapped the bundle. Inside it was a single blade, encrusted with the remnants of the last time she'd needed to use the bundle. Beside the blade was an array of objects that were quite random: a leather cutter, a roll of bandages, a much-loved doll, and numerous scraps of paper. The leather cutter was there because...well, Amanda actually had no idea why it was there-perhaps because it was good at slicing skin apart? The bandages were obviously there for Amanda to cover her wounds with- she made sure she cut herself in places that could be easily covered up- her thighs, for instance. The doll was the only remnant of Amanda's brutal (and somewhat cruel) upbringing. There was no real purpose to the doll- she simply kept it there because it reminded her on the changes she had gone through once she had grown up- she had grown from a little girl who was terrified of the dark to the potential successor to John's legacy. The paper? Well, Amanda had heard that an alternative to harming yourself to deal with emotional stress was to write down what was bothering you. She had tried it- only to dismiss it a day later. Writing did not help. Only the curved edge of the blade could help her now.

She glanced around again, before she shrugged her pants down to her ankles. She sat on the bed, her long, delicate fingers caressing the blade gently. She stared at it- she appeared to be almost considering it. Then, she leant down, and she pressed the edge of the blade against her thigh.

She closed her eyes and sighed, almost as if she was at the pinnacle of pleasure. The blade dug deeper into the scarred flesh of her thigh, and blood began to steadily drip down her leg, to the floor. Amanda sighed, feeling the hatred loosen its' grip on her, feeling the weight on her shoulders evaporating.

It would not disappear forever, Amanda knew that much, but nevertheless, she welcomed the feeling of weightlessness, the feeling of...freedom.

**XxX**

Peter Strahm was shattered. He could not believe that he was off the Jigsaw case. Furthermore, he could not believe who had suggested that he be taken off- his partner, Lindsey Perez.

Strahm knew she meant well, but he was pissed off nevertheless. He had worked on the Jigsaw case from the beginning- and now Perez wanted to call his career (at least the one regarding Jigsaw) to an end.

He could remember the moment when everything had shattered, the moment when Erickson had strolled into his office, Perez and Cowan not two paces behind him:

_Strahm, hunched over his desk, looked up at the sharp rapping noise on his office door. "Come in," he said, sounding puzzled. Erickson opened the door, looking sombre. In one hand, he held the cassette player- the one with Jigsaw's chilling message. _

"_Hello, Peter."_

"_Hello, Erickson," Strahm replied, the confusion on his face becoming more evident- he looked completely bewildered as to why Erickson was here. Erickson could not help but feel a little sorry for Strahm, as it was not good news that he was going to deliver. Strahm was one of the most devoted FBI agents Erickson had ever seen- to take him off a case in which he excelled- that was something that Erickson was dreading. _

_Perez had been right, in the fact that Strahm looked gaunt, unhealthy- he was a mere shadow of the man he had been not one week ago. He was thin, pale, untidy... Clearly, the man had been obsessing over the case- the bags under his eyes proved this. His obsession had been so powerful that he could not sleep at night. The sight saddened Erickson. He didn't want to do this, but it was for Strahm's own good._

_Strahm, seeing Erickson scrutinise him, raised an eyebrow. "What?" He asked, not aggressively. Erickson sighed. _

"_Peter, you're not well."_

"_I'm fine, Erickson." _

"_No, you're not," Erickson said gently. "Look at yourself. You're wasting away." _

_Strahm chose to ignore this. "You've got the player," he said, sounding surprised, "You thinking of joining the case, Erickson?" _

_Erickson chuckled uncomfortably, an act that Strahm did not miss, though he chose to say nothing. "Yes, actually." He chanced a glance behind him: Perez looked like she was about to cry. Cowan, understandably, looked confused as to what was going on. Erickson knew he ought to send her away, yet he could not seem to muster the strength to. He swallowed. "Peter..."_

"_You're off the case," Perez said, saying what Erickson could not. _

_Strahm, understandably, looked shocked. "What?" He asked softly, not daring to believe it. _

"_I'm sorry, Peter. It's over." Erickson said. Strahm blinked. _

"_I'm sorry, what?" _

"_We're taking you off the case for a while," Erickson said morosely. "So you can recover." _

_Strahm's shock was wearing off- he was getting angry. He clenched his hands into fists- fists that clearly showed the bones in his hands. "No," he growled, and it wasn't the word that disturbed Perez, but the way he said it. She shrank back from him, a sign of cowardice she would greatly regret later. _

_Erickson sighed, and reached into his pocket. "Read it," he commanded, handing the note to Strahm, who took it with slightly shaking hands. The frown on his face became more pronounced with each line of the note he read. _

"_On whose orders?" He demanded angrily. Erickson sighed. _

"_Mine." _

And now he, Strahm, had a hell of a lot of time on his hands, and he hadn't the faintest idea of what to do with it. "I can't believe I was taken off the case," he growled. He slammed a bony fist onto the table- he was supposedly 'recovering' at his home- a lovely, two-storey place, just out of Mayfield. In fact, it was remarkably close to where Selena Mason, the flutist, lived. He had been on that case as well- once the firemen had doused the flames licking her home, he, Strahm, had been called in to investigate her murder. The woman had been stabbed through the throat by a large blade- a machete, perhaps?

Strahm, who had been momentarily distracted, returned to the problem at hand: Jigsaw was still out there, and it was, regardless of whether Strahm had been taken off the case or not, his duty to bring Jigsaw to justice, as well as that emotional junkie, Amanda Young. Was it not his DUTY, as a member of the FBI, to bring Jigsaw and his apprentice in, to bring them to justice, to finally stop the Jigsaw murders?

Yes, it was. Yes, it was Strahm's DUTY to stop Jigsaw- just like any other law enforcer.

Unlike most other law enforcers, however, Strahm had a clue. And he was so CLOSE to figuring it out! He was so close to bringing Jigsaw to justice!

All he needed was a little time, and, because he had been taken off of the case, he had all the time in the fucking world.

Yes, Peter Strahm was going to stay on the case, even if he wasn't allowed.

Strahm smiled to himself, as he focused his attention on the single piece of paper on the table- the one which proclaimed in vast, bold letters, the message Jigsaw had left for Perez and himself.

Strahm believed that Jigsaw wanted to chase after him, to learn more about him, hell, maybe even to bring him in so his skinny ass could rot in jail!

Oh, yes. Jigsaw was offering bait. And Peter Strahm would take it.

**XxX**

Hoffman sighed. The silly old bitch had fallen over in the middle of the street, and had been listening to the tape for what must have been, what? The seventieth time?

That had annoyed Hoffman, who had taken his anger out on the teenager beside him- he hit her in the arm, inflicting a bruise- but the stupid girl had deserved it, and besides, the act made Angelina happy. Hoffman would do anything to make his sister happy.

The girl had grunted in pain and tried to shy away from the blow. Hoffman, breathing heavily through the mask, tried to calm down- he couldn't afford to become like Amanda, who acted on impulse, or pure emotion- he couldn't afford to be like that. Otherwise, he would fail John as surely as Amanda was going to. Oh yes, Amanda was going to fail John, despite her constant declarations that no, she would NEVER fail John, she wouldn't DARE.

What had John once told Hoffman?

"_The heart cannot be involved. Emotionally, there can be nothing there. It can never be personal."_

That there, right THERE, was where Amanda was going to fail. She always made things personal.

But he, Hoffman, had no business in dwelling in the past- or the future. What mattered at the moment was making it back to John and Amanda- and, hopefully, the Dwyer woman's corpse. The teenager was no longer beside Hoffman- he had delivered her back to the old woman, after administering the antidote for the poison. The old woman had wept with relief, and had ignored Hoffman as though he were nothing but a nasty little fly on the wall. That had suited Hoffman just fine. He had been happy to be ignored, and she had been happy to ignore him. She had finished her game, so what business did she have with the frightening man wearing the pig mask?

None at all. Finally, the horrid Sarah Skinner business was over.

As Hoffman trundled into the street where John's lair was, he sighed. Angelina sighed with him. "Do you think the Dwyer woman is dead?" She asked him, eyes alight with worry.

Hoffman briefly considered his sister. "I don't know," he replied, clenching the steering wheel tightly. He had taken off the pig mask, and it was in the glove box now, and he was Detective Mark Hoffman again. As the car drew nearer, Hoffman sighed. "I don't know," he repeated. "We can only hope."

"There is always hope," Angelina agreed.

**XxX**

"Amanda!" John's voice was weak, yet Amanda heard her mentor perfectly- she had become so attuned to listening out for his voice, that she rather thought she would be able to hear him if she had headphones on and he was whispering.

"Shit!" Amanda's leg was still bleeding- she couldn't go and assist John bleeding like a fucking pig. Panicked, she reached for the bandages, but succeeded only in knocking them down. "Fuck!" She searched for something, ANYTHING, to mop up the river of blood, her hands were scrabbling on the bed, until she found-

The doll. It's expressionless face stared up at her, the blue eyes almost seeming questioning. Amanda stared back at it, for a few moments, before she plunged it against the gash in her leg, and the head of the doll seemed to soak up the blood better than the actual CLOTHES of the doll, which struck Amanda as slightly strange.

"Amanda!"

He was more desperate now. If he needed help so much, why didn't he just get that Dwyer whore to help him? She was just as capable as Amanda was. Or maybe she didn't want to help John. Maybe she didn't care. Maybe-

"I'm coming, John!" She tossed the doll into a corner, and pulled her pants back up. She hoped to God that no stains would appear. John would notice, and then, she would be fucked. Oh, yes. She would be reprimanded, and-

"AMANDA!"

Wasting no time, Amanda rushed to John. He was lying in his bunk, wheezing heavily. "John!" She cried, getting his aspirator for him. She held it to his mouth, and he sucked in that clean, good oxygen, and Amanda dabbed at his forehead with her free hand- she was nothing but a multitasker.

"Are you okay?" She asked, worried. John nodded. "Where's Melanie? Couldn't she have helped?"

John indicated for her to remove the aspirator. "She could have," he agreed. "But, Amanda, I wanted you to assist me." Amanda's eyes grew wide. She was slightly shocked at this- she had thought that since Melanie was his new apprentice, he would pay more attention to her than he would to Amanda, or Hoffman. He chuckled slightly at her expression. "I know this has been hard for you, Amanda," he said, sounding apologetic. "But, as you are very well aware, I am dying. The more people to carry on my legacy, the better. While there is potential within Melanie, she could never replace you, Amanda. At times it might not seem like it, but...you are important to me. More so than Melanie can ever be."

At these words, Amanda began to cry. It wasn't the fact that John was dying- she had known that for a while now, but the way he said it, so matter-of-factly, was what made her cry. John knew his time was nearly up. He knew that he had only two people to carry on his legacy, and, if they should be caught, then his work would cease forever. That was the main reason why he recruited Melanie. The woman had been researching John for years now, ever since he had first begun his work. She had kept her murdering secrets hidden from the police for over fifteen years- if she could do that, surely she could hide herself from the police as a potential successor to John?

"Amanda, it's okay," John whispered, sounding a little teary himself. He held his hand out to her, and Amanda took it. They stayed that way for a while, Amanda taking comfort in John's presence, at least until the back door of the funeral parlour creaked open, and Mark Hoffman stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

"There you are, Mark," John said, sounding genuinely pleased. "Where have you been?"

"Sightseeing," Hoffman replied. He shrugged out of his coat and hung it on a blade that had been thrust into the wall, the hilt protruding from the plaster. He placed the pig mask on a file cabinet, filled to the brim with records of all the people who had been cremated in the furnace here. "What became of the Dwyer woman?" He asked, somewhat eagerly. "Is she dead?"

Amanda and John exchanged a series of looks. It was Amanda who finally spoke up.

"Not exactly."

**XxX**

"To decipher the beginning, you must arrive at the end," Strahm muttered, thumbing through the file he had 'borrowed'- it was the file about John Kramer. Inside it was everything about the guy you could possibly want to know. Jill Tuck was mentioned a fair few times, as was Gideon Kramer, the miscarried son of Jigsaw. The file declared that although John was not religious, he saw himself as a 'spiritual' sort of person- he saw life as a gift, and death as an escape, often referring to it as 'the end.'

But that made no sense. To decipher the Jigsaw legacy, you must die? "To decipher the beginning, you must die," Strahm said, trying it out. It didn't sound right. Jigsaw wouldn't make his messages so blunt- there had to be some kind of hidden message in there, something that Strahm wasn't seeing.

"To decipher the beginning, you must die."

No, it DEFINTELY didn't sound right. Strahm crumpled the sheet of paper he had been working on into a ball, and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. "Come on, come on..." he growled, racking his mind for an idea as to what the message must mean, because it just COULDN'T mean that he, Strahm, had to die. It couldn't. The idea was so un-Jigsaw-like that it was almost laughable. "The end...The fucking END..."

What WAS the end? In terms of the message, that was. What did Jigsaw mean by 'you must arrive at the end'? Obviously, he did not mean 'you have to die'- the clever bastard meant something else.

Strahm looked out the window. The sun was dropping below the horizon, but he could still see pretty well. As he watched, a hearse drove by, with a coffin inside. The fact that a hearse was driving by was not what caught Strahm's attention; the writing on the side of the hearse did. It proclaimed, in depressing, curly, script:

'HELPING YOU WHEN SOMEONE YOU LOVE REACHES THE END.'

"The end..." Strahm muttered. He noted the series of numbers on the side of the vehicle, before it turned a corner and was out of sight. Excited, he rushed to the phone and punched the eight numbers in, so hard that the phone was in danger of breaking. "Shit," he muttered, and then he waited, for someone to answer.

"Hello?" A young voice asked. It was a female, probably no older than twenty-five. Her voice was soft.

"Hi." He had no idea how to form his question into words, without sounding like a total idiot. "I saw your motto on a hearse driving by, and I'm afraid I don't understand what it means." He tried to sound younger than he really was- and more innocent. He had a vague idea of what the motto meant- but he could be wrong. He had to make sure, because, if what he thought was true, then he may very well know the location of Jigsaw's current lair.

"Ah," the woman replied. "Well, 'the end' means when someone dies, but many refer to funeral parlours as 'the end', because that is where we cremate the bodies. Can I help you with anything else, sir?"

"No, thanks," Strahm said, his mouth becoming very dry. "No, that's all, thanks." He hung up before the woman could reply. He stared at the wall. "Shit."

There was an abandoned funeral parlour just out of town.

**XxX**

"Jigsaw was a spiritual sort of person," Perez argued. "I think there is a hidden message somewhere in that tape."

Erickson sighed. "I don't think so, Lindsey. Jigsaw is merely taunting us. It's best if we ignore it."

"How can you think that?" Perez said, her voice rising. Cowan, concerned, poked her head out from her office, the look on her face inquiring. Erickson shrugged, and Cowan, apparently satisfied, retreated back into her office. Perez lowered her voice. "Erickson, it's obvious that there is a meaning behind that message. It's our job to figure it out."

"You've been on the case longer than I have," Erickson said, rather sharply. "Why don't you tell me what it means?"

"Well," Perez began, and Erickson bit back a sigh. He honestly could not believe that Perez was taking this so seriously- Jigsaw had taunted the authorities before, so what made this message so different? Nevertheless, he listened intently to what Perez was saying. "Originally, I thought it meant that to solve the Jigsaw murders, we'd have to die, because isn't that what everyone thinks 'the end' means? But then, I thought that that wasn't Jigsaw's purpose. He really thinks he's helping people. He doesn't kill them randomly. And then, I saw an advertisement for a funeral parlour. Guess what their motto was?"

Despite himself, Erickson was intrigued. "What?"

Perez smiled. "'HELPING YOU WHEN SOMEONE YOU LOVE REACHES THE END.'"

Erickson raised an eyebrow. "You serious?"

"Absolutely. Now, most people refer to 'the end' as death, but some think that funeral parlours are the TRUE end of a life, because that is where the body is cremated."

"So you're saying Jigsaw wants us to go to a funeral parlour?" Erickson asked incredulously. "Fitting place for us to die, wouldn't you say?"

Perez nodded. "That's what I thought as well. But Jigsaw doesn't kill people, remember? That's why I think it's important that we go and take a look, at least. We might even find that poor Dwyer girl."

"And where are we going to go, exactly?"

Perez pulled out a map from her breast pocket. She opened it, and spread it out, so Erickson could see. She jabbed at a dot on the map. "There's an abandoned funeral parlour just out of town," she said, sounding triumphant. Erickson sighed.

"I suppose we may as well take a look," he said wearily.

**XxX**

Hoffman was not, as he had anticipated, angry about the fact that the Dwyer woman was not dead. He was more intrigued than anything. Obviously, there had been some potential in her that Hoffman had overlooked, and John could clearly see.

While Melanie greatly resembled Amanda in some ways, she was not nearly as bad. In fact, Hoffman decided that she was likeable enough.

While Amanda was busying herself with looking after John, Hoffman drew Melanie aside. "I think there's something you should know," he said in a low voice that would have frightened most people, but, miraculously, Melanie was not afraid.

"What?" She asked softly, not rudely.

Hoffman made sure Amanda was still busy with John. "The FBI are after you," he told her bluntly, expecting her to freak out, to become a spitting image of the emotional junkie now beside their mentor.

Once again, Melanie surprised Hoffman. "Oh, I know," she said, smiling, "And I have plans for them, Mark. Big plans. They won't be bothering us soon."


	13. Legacy

**September 24****th****, 1997- Legacy. **

The faces of the SWAT men showed not the slightest hint of fright. In fact, many of them were grinning, fingering their weapons almost lovingly, undoubtedly imagining what it would feel like to pour bullets into Jigsaw and Amanda Young, to see them subdue before them, for once not being able to elude them, but succumbing to them quietly, and having their miserable asses rot in jail.

It was a fantasy that even Perez had trouble dismissing. She so desperately wanted to bring Jigsaw and his accomplice to justice, but, more than that, she wanted Strahm there with her. Yes, she had Erickson with her, not to mention the SWAT team standing before her, but Strahm, while arrogant and a smartass, always made her feel that everything would turn out all right. And she needed to feel that now more than ever, because she knew what the consequences were for failing this case:

Death.

She swallowed tersely, unbuttoning her blouse slightly. She had never felt this nervous before- but she knew the reason why, oh yes, of course she did- it was because she felt helpless. _Vulnerable. _

She hated feeling so nervous, especially in front of the SWAT team- they looked as though they were going for a mere stroll, and here she was, an FBI agent, sweating buckets! She had no business doing that, since she outranked and outclassed the SWAT team by...Well, she outranked them by a lot, anyway.

One of the SWAT members, a man named Daniel Rigg, was gazing at her curiously. He was the leader of the SWAT team, and he was easily the largest man there. Wary, Perez dropped her gaze down to her polished shoes, swallowing once more.

A hand clamped down on her shoulder, and Perez, startled, let out a slight whimper, before she realized that it was simply Erickson, her boss. He looked concerned. "You alright, Lindsey?" He asked. Perez shrugged.

"It doesn't matter if I'm ready or not," she replied. "I'm just going to have to be."

This did not seem to satisfy Erickson, who looked at her rather oddly. "You can always stay behind," he suggested, sensing her timidness. "In fact, with the way you are, it might be for the best."

Perez was outraged. "And miss out on bringing Jigsaw to justice?" She asked, her voice rising several octaves, aware of the fact that she was quite audible- if she needed confirmation of this, a quick glance to her right would suffice. Several of the SWAT members were eyeing her warily, some rather bemusedly.

"I can't do that, Erickson," she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. "I promised Peter I'd bring Jigsaw to justice if he could not."

Erickson's face was filled with a kind of sympathy. "You wish you hadn't asked me to take him off the case," he said, and it was not a question- the two of them knew that.

Perez had opened her mouth to answer, when a distraction arrived in the form of several more police officers- Steven Sing and David Tapp, some of the smarter ones that had already dealt with Jigsaw (or, as was more appropriate, his VICTIMS) more than once. Tapp had in fact actually interrogated Jigsaw's accomplice, Amanda Young, when she escaped from a trap of her own – a complicated thing called the Reverse Bear Trap, Perez believed. Since Tapp knew a little about Amanda's history, he was the best out of the police force to have on the raid. Sing was along mainly because he was Tapp's partner, although he was fairly smart too. They were two fine additions to the raid.

Erickson sauntered over to greet the two men, and, because she had nothing else to do, Perez followed him. "Glad you could make it," Erickson said warmly, clasping the officers' hands briefly. "I've Special Agent Daniel Erickson, and this-"he gestured to Perez, who was standing beside him "- Is Special Agent Lindsey Perez." Perez pulled her mouth into a smile and took the men's hands in turn, feeling the smoothness of their wedding rings brush against her own, bare hands.

"Thank you for coming," she said. She turned to Tapp. "I understand you have had some experience with Amanda Young, detective?"

The huge black man nodded. Erickson, sensing Perez's discomfort, took over. "Care to shed some light for us, detective?" He asked.

Tapp nodded again without smiling. "Miss Young was a heroin addict, while she was in prison. It wasn't long after she got released that our friend Jigsaw abducted her and placed her in the Reverse Bear Trap."

"And what was that device meant to do to Amanda?"

"It was hooked into her upper and lower jaws," Tapp said, smiling colourlessly- the overall effect was quite disturbing. He looked slightly deranged. "When the timer went off, it would open up, ripping her mouth wide open in the process." Perez felt slightly sick, but was determined to gather as much information about Amanda Young as she could possibly could. Beside her, Erickson was drinking all this up.

That seemed to be it for Tapp, who stuck his hands into his pockets and began to hum tunelessly. Sing, perhaps eager to have some input in this, thrust a manila folder at Erickson. "Some of her history," he explained. "We got it from Oregon Prison. According to this, she acts entirely on impulse or emotion. She was quite aggressive in prison, and she injected herself with heroin there, which added to her emotional turmoil."

"So, if we were to aggravate her..." Perez began. Sing nodded.

"Yeah. She might very well do something she'd regret- like try to attack us."

"What about Jigsaw?" Perez asked faintly, wishing Strahm was here more than ever- he always sounded so brave, so strong- his strength gave Perez strength.

"The bedridden cancer patient?" Tapp interjected, glancing at Perez oddly. "Once Amanda is out of the way, he'll be easy enough to subdue."

"My thoughts exactly, Tapp," a deep, masculine voice said. The group of agents and detectives spun around, to fine Detective Mark Hoffman standing in the doorway, ready for the raid. His icy-blue eyes surveyed the room briefly before resting on Perez. "Amanda is the greatest obstacle today."

There was something about the way he said it that put Perez on high alert. What it was, she hadn't the faintest idea, but she certainly didn't trust him. "She is," Erickson agreed, moving forward to greet Hoffman. There were no introductions here; the two had already met prior to today. Erickson jerked a thumb at Perez. "This is Special Agent Lindsey Perez- she was the one who alerted us to the location of Jigsaw's lair."

Hoffman moved forward. "Pleasure to meet you," he said, taking her hand in his, though she had made no such offer to do so. His hand was rough and cool, eerily cool, and there was no wedding ring on his finger. His icy eyes bored into her own, and she forced a smile.

"Pleasure to finally meet you, detective," she said. "You have had some experience in the Jigsaw cases?"

"Yes," he replied, letting her hand slide out of his daintily, "I've been chasing Jigsaw since the beginning."

"So you have an idea of what may be waiting for us, then?"

Hoffman smiled, though, Perez noted with some alarm, it did not reach his eyes. "I have an idea," he answered, speaking slowly, as though considering what he should or should not say. "But, an idea is just an idea. There's no predicting what might be there, what might be hidden behind every window, every door."

"That's true," Perez agreed. "After all, this is Jigsaw we're talking about. He'd be crazy not to have a few devices littered here and there to try and stop us, wouldn't he?"

"Yes. Yes, he would." Now Hoffman seemed a little distanced, as though he were lost in thought. This was a man who had seen one too many horrors- not unlike Strahm. Perez wondered how he was doing at home. She hoped that he was coping alright, and that he would be able to forgive her, once all of this shit was over.

She noticed Erickson motioning for her to join him. "If you'll excuse me..." She said, drifting off in Erickson's general direction, her mind somewhere else entirely.

"Yes, of course, Agent Perez." She heard Hoffman say it, quite distinctly, and she inclined her head to show that she had heard.

Once the agent was out of earshot, Hoffman let his lip curl with revulsion. It was something he did quite unconsciously, and, if anyone happened to see him, they would simply assume he was thinking of John and that he was disgusted by the way he tested people- tested their will to survive.

He stared at his sister, who was taut, anxious. He so desperately wanted to comfort her, but to do so here would arouse suspicion- he would be sent home to 'recover', like Strahm had been. He didn't want that to happen.

He wanted to be there to see the fun and games begin.

Aware that someone was watching him, Hoffman trained his gaze on Agent Perez, the remainder of the annoying FBI combo. Yes, she was pretty, but behind that pretty face was a brain of some intelligence. Not as logical as Strahm's, that was true, but smarter than most people. She was, after all, the one who had alerted the FBI to the location of John's current lair. The man in question was well out of the way, as was Amanda and Melanie, so there was nothing to worry about there. The FBI, assuming they made it that far, would find nothing but an empty hospital bed and the Iron Chair trap. Along with something else, but he, Hoffman, hadn't the faintest idea what it would be- Melanie had been very careful to keep that from him- the only person who knew, apart from the creator herself, was John.

Perez knew too much. She would have to die.

Hoffman smiled, as she turned around and noticed his scrutiny, returning his smile somewhat uncertainly. Yes, she would have to die. And there would be blood. Yes, there would be lots of it.

The preliminaries were over. Now the REAL fun and games would soon begin.

**XxX**

Unbeknownst to Hoffman, the man who had been watching him intently had been none other than Peter Strahm, clad entirely in SWAT team attire. Yes, he knew that he had been dismissed from the case, but today was an exception. Today was the day they were going to raid Jigsaw's lair, and Strahm, dismissed or not, could not stand to miss it. He wanted to see Amanda Young be taken into custody, never to be released. He wanted to see Jigsaw be thrust into the wild, brutal life of the prisoners- to see him be beaten by other criminals, to see him beg to be released, only to be denied...

Strahm smiled, and, upon seeing Daniel Rigg approaching, pulled his helmet down, partially obscuring the eyes that would undoubtedly be Strahm's undoing, for no-one had eyes quite like he did- an odd, greyish-blue colour.

Rigg stopped in front of Strahm. "Ready for this, McDermott?" He asked. Strahm nodded. He was masquerading as Chas McDermott, and that was a name of no consequence: Strahm knew that Kael Simons, the psychopath, had used this name a fair few times, but, unknown to him, Chas was an old friend of Strahm's, and he had (if somewhat reluctantly) allowed Strahm to pose as him, so he would not miss the raid. To melt into McDermott's character, Strahm had had to clean himself up a fair bit- he had shaved (although all he had done was get rid of the moustache- Chas had shaving stubble), and he had cut his hair (_HACKED_ at his hair was probably a better way of describing it) and yes, he looked a LOT better than he had before- he literally looked like a new man.

"Hell yeah, sir," Strahm replied, allowing himself a small grin, one which Rigg returned. He clapped Strahm on the shoulder.

"Good to hear," he said cheerfully. "You're on the ball today, McDermott."

With one last grin, Rigg moved on to the rest of his team, praising some, reassuring others. Now that Rigg was out of the way, Strahm could allow his attention to wander. His eyes scanned the room again, and they found Perez, engaged in conversation with Erickson, but she looked uncomfortable, and Strahm desperately wanted to go over to her and reassure her, but that wasn't allowed. To do so now...would look very strange. A SWAT member walking up to an FBI agent and talking to them as though they were best friends? Yes, there was definitely something wrong with that picture.

Besides, how would Perez even recognize him? He looked so different; it would take some time to convince her that he really WAS her partner, and, even if he managed to do that, he would probably be taken off the case permanently. Of course, that was assuming there even WAS a case after today!

Strahm, frustrated by this, sucked in a deep breath and trained his eyes on Hoffman, who was acting rather oddly. He was keeping away from the other detectives, Tapp and Sing, and he was watching them, his eyes alight with some kind of inner emotion that Strahm couldn't identify. There was something about Hoffman that simply didn't sit right with Strahm, and he was going to find out what it was, of that there was no question.

**XxX**

Hoffman was annoyed everything was taking so long. Couldn't they just hurry up and raid the funeral parlour already? Angelina, sensing his tension, laid a hand on his arm- a hand that was slightly transparent. "Remember what John said," she whispered, leaning towards him, her lips brushing his cheek- a cheek that was beginning to see stubble. Hoffman was too aggravated to take much notice of his sister, an absolute first for him.

"Mark." Her voice was stern now. _"Mark." _

At last, he fixed his eyes on her. They were blazing with suppressed anticipation, and something else- rage. But what could he possibly be angry about? "What did John tell you, when you first became his apprentice?" She asked him now, her voice still stern.

He couldn't answer her aloud, because that would draw unwanted attention. People would think he was going insane- something he absolutely was NOT going. No-fucking-way.

So, as a rather poor alternative, he whispered the words in his mind, the words John had drilled into him since he had joined him:

_The heart cannot be involved. Emotionally, there can be nothing there. It can NEVER be personal. _

"Exactly," Angelina said, smug. "If you make this personal, Mark, then you're no better than Amanda. Forget about that Perez bitch- she's going to be dead in an hour or so. Forget about all the wrongs she's done- because she's going to pay for them, Mark, and she's going to pay for them _soon. _Don't make it personal."

She was right. Hoffman liked to think he was a better apprentice than Amanda was- because he, unlike her, detached from their work emotionally, allowing him to obey John's orders with minimal consequences. Amanda, however, simply couldn't deal with the brutal nature of their work, and resorted to harming herself as a way of coping- Hoffman had seen the scars across her wrists, her forearms, and even in the crook of her elbows. He knew she also cut herself on her thighs, because he had seen the bloodstains on her pants, when she had come to assist John with his aspirator.

After glancing around surreptitiously, Hoffman bowed his head and muttered "You're right, sister."

Angelina smiled at him.

**XxX**

"All right, so you and I, Lindsey, we're going to go in with squadron A. It's our job to get to Jigsaw and Amanda." Erickson glanced over at Rigg. "Rigg, you're coming in with us, correct?"

"Yes."

"Alright. Tapp and Sing should accompany Squadron A," Erickson said tersely, fiddling with his handgun- something that reminded Perez of Strahm. The nervousness returned, and she wished that he was here, barking out orders like the arrogant smartass he was. Tapp and Sing nodded solemnly. Erickson, somewhat flustered, waved Rigg over. "Rigg! What SWAT members are you having accompany you?"

Rigg considered, and then barked out a series of names that were unfamiliar to Perez, save for one: McDermott. She had heard that name before, when Strahm was digging through the Simons file. Chas McDermott was one of the alibis Kael Simons used. She stiffened, her hand drifting to her gun, but letting it fall when she saw Chas McDermott. He looked nothing like Kael Simons- in fact, Chas actually reminded Perez of Strahm in a way! They had the same grey-blue eyes.

Relaxing, she smiled at him. He did not smile back, but that was because Rigg had called them to attention.

The total number for squadron A turned out to be seventeen. There was Erickson, Perez, Rigg, Tapp, Sing, Strahm, and eleven other SWAT men.

How many there were in squadron B, Perez hadn't the faintest idea, because she wasn't organizing it- that was handled by Rigg and Erickson.

"Ready for this, Lindsey?" Erickson asked again, as they all filed out of the large FBI building, and into unmarked police cars.

"I suppose," she said, trying not to let her voice waver. Though the two of them were alone, she did not want to let Erickson know how nervous she was.

"Don't worry. This is going to be easy."

As their car pulled out from the curb, Perez saw Hoffman climbing into his own mountain of a car. He caught her eye, and he smiled at her.

**XxX**

The funeral parlour was dismal enough looking, Strahm noted, hauling his body out of the crowded van. He did it somewhat awkwardly; he wasn't used to sharing a van with twelve other people.

Yes- the parlour looked to be dismal enough to be a Jigsaw lair- Jigsaw seemed to prefer isolated, dismal places for his lairs; he had had one in a meat-packing plant, and another in a mannequin factory. Both were eerie in their own way.

"Alright, men!" Rigg barked. Strahm and the others snapped to attention, forming a line before their leader. "We're going in with Agents Perez and Erickson, and Detectives Hoffman, Tapp and Sing. Be on the lookout for any trip-wires, machinery, or anything else that doesn't sit right with you. Remember, our main objective is to capture and subdue Amanda Young and John Kramer."

"Yes, sir!" The line of SWAT members sang as one. Rigg nodded.

"Alright, let's go, men!"

Another chorus of 'yes, sir!', and then Erickson kicked the door down, and they began to pile in, guns at the ready. In front were Agents Erickson and Perez. Rigg was close behind, as were Tapp, Sing, and Hoffman. Strahm and the other (lesser) SWAT members trailed after them.

They proceeded slowly, aiming flashlights into corners, wary.

Strahm edged closer to Perez, wanting to be near her. The gun he held felt heavy and bulky- he wanted his handgun back, but Chas had told him SWAT men weren't allowed to carry one. To masquerade as a SWAT man properly, Chas had said that Strahm would have to make some sacrifices. Oh, Strahm didn't mind that- part of his job as an FBI agent _required _sacrifices to be made.

Some of the men were muttering ominously, aiming their flashlights at the ground. Strahm felt like screaming at them, because very rarely were the traps on the ground- Jigsaw wanted to catch them all by surprise, so the traps would naturally be above them- on the roof, perhaps.

Feeling slightly jumpy, Strahm directed his flashlight at the ceiling. Nothing. He sighed. For some, the lack of traps might be reassuring, but for Strahm, it did absolutely nothing to calm his nerves. If anything, it added to them.

"There's nothing here," one of the SWAT men behind Strahm said audibly. "This isn't a lair. It's an abandoned building."

Strahm chewed the inside of his cheek to stop himself from snapping at the other man. Blood swelled, and Strahm's mouth was filled with the salty taste. He grimaced, and quietly spat the mouthful of blood into his fist, and then wiped it on his trouser leg. Yes, it wasn't particularly nice, but he could hardly walk around with a mouthful of blood, could he?

"Just because there are no traps here yet doesn't mean there aren't any at all," Rigg said sharply, presumably to reprimand the irritable SWAT man. "Keep your eyes and ears open."

Beats of sweat rolled down Tapp's forehead, as he and Sing moved forwards with Hoffman, who alone seemed rather calm and collected. Sing was squinting into the darkness, not having a flashlight of his own, his finger poised at the trigger of his gun, ready to pour bullets into the first thing that caught him by surprise. Tapp was, if possible, even more tense. His muscles strained against his white shirt, indicating that he, too, was ready to fire upon the first thing he saw, whether it be friend or foe.

They moved into the reception area. The blade wedged into the wall where Hoffman had hung his pig mask just days before was now gone- but a large hole remained in the plaster. The reception desk was littered with papers- papers which-

"Holy shit," Rigg whispered, holding one up for them all to see. It was a sketch of a coffin on a conveyor belt, which led into a furnace. Inside the coffin, Jigsaw had drawn a rough sketch of a young man, who appeared to be cuffed to the bottom of the coffin. In one hand, he held a knife. Around his wrist was a cassette player. At the bottom of the page were the words RAYMOND MOORE, slashed across the page in red ink.

Strahm couldn't help his reaction. He stopped in his tracks and stared up at the picture, with a look of recognition on his face. The man in the picture was Kael's friend, Raymond Moore, the depressive pyromaniac, the one who had been ambushed inside his own apartment.

Thankfully, Strahm's reaction was mirrored by that of Perez, who let out an audible gasp, drawing whatever attention Strahm momentarily had onto herself. "You recognize this guy?" Rigg asked, frowning.

"Yes," Perez gasped, nodding frantically. "Yes, I recognize him. He's a pyromaniac, and Peter and I saw a tape..."

"A tape?" Hoffman inquired sharply. "What kind of tape?"

"It was a security tape," Perez said breathlessly, taking the paper from Rigg. Strahm noted with pride that she had continued his research, even after he had been taken off the case. "We knew Jigsaw was after Moore, and we went after him, but by the time we got there, he was gone. Peter demanded to see the security tape, because there was a camera right outside of Moore's door, because he lives right near the reception area, and we saw a man wearing Jigsaw's attire leap out and accost Moore. Then the tape went blank. I suppose this drawing tells us what happened to him."

Hoffman sneered, though, in the near-darkness, it went unnoticed. It had been HIM who had captured Moore, yes, it had been HIM who had pulled the security camera off the wall after he had realized it had captured everything, and yes, it had been HIM who had alerted John to the four criminals in the first place- everything had been HIS doing.

But, he, Hoffman, had made a mistake. He had forgotten to dispose of the security tapes- but that did not matter now.

"He's dead," he said simply, staring at the sketch. It had been John who had drawn it, with a dangerously shaking hand. Amanda had had to hold his hand steady so the drawing turned out somewhat legible.

"The evidence does point that way," Perez agreed, folding the sketch up and placing it in her pocket. "Shall we press on?"

Erickson nodded. They all swept their flashlights over the room once more, momentarily illuminating the slashed, broken chairs, yet more ominous papers, and-

Strahm sucked in a deep breath. Along the floor of one particular doorway (the plaque nearby announced that it was the CREMATION ROOM) was a slack metal trip-wire. Strahm looked skywards. Positioned above the doorway were four shotguns. If the trip-wire was triggered, the guns would go off, blowing the victim's head to pieces.

"Hey..." Strahm began, but, to his dismay, saw that he was alone in the reception area. The party had moved off without him, down the hallway. Thankfully, it was not the one with the quadruple shotgun hanging over the doorway.

Sure that he could feel eyes on him, Strahm hurried after the party, looking skywards the whole time.

**XxX**

The morgue was but a short stroll from the reception area, and Mark Hoffman was impatient to get there. The group was moving slowly, careful not to fall victim to any traps.

Hoffman smiled in the blackness. They thought they would escape unharmed. They thought they would live...

How very wrong they were. They would all die, including the annoying Perez bitch.

The morgue was empty, much to many peoples' relief, though the smell of death still lingered about, creeping up noses, and making more than one person gag. Hoffman had to admit, the smell was pretty disgusting. And John had wanted to have his hospital bed in here! Amanda had refused him that, and it was perhaps the one thing Hoffman and Amanda had agreed on- John did not deserve to be in the same room where corpses rested for God knows how long. To make John happier, Amanda and Melanie had pushed his bed in there, to further confuse the police.

"Jesus," Erickson muttered, shining his light onto the ragged hospital bed. Tapp and Sing crowded around it, studying it intensely. There were tiny spots of blood on the bed.

The bed kept the group occupied longer than Hoffman had anticipated. Bored, he hung back from the group, watching as the final SWAT man hurried into the room. He looked familiar to Hoffman, who scrutinized him with cold eyes, not moving from his place against the wall. The man eventually returned Hoffman's gaze, his grey-blue eyes boring into Hoffman's. The man fingered his gun, and then glanced up at the ceiling, almost worriedly. Hoffman guessed that he had seen the quadruple shotgun trap. It was a particular favourite of John's, though it wasn't a true trap, it was a security trap.

Finally, mercifully, the group moved away from the bed. Sing found a few cabinets, and offered to go through them, but Erickson, who was impatient to get this whole thing over with, shook his head no.

"Someone was here recently," Perez said suddenly. The group turned to look at her, Tapp in particular.

"What makes you say that?" The huge man asked. Hoffman noticed the SWAT man, the one who was called McDermott, glance into the corners of the room, his eyes wide.

Perez gestured to the table beside the bed. "Look."

A cup of coffee was on the table. Tapp touched it lightly. It was still hot. "Jesus," he whispered.

"What?" Sing and Erickson asked in unison. Tapp gestured for them to touch the cup of coffee. They did so, their sceptical expressions becoming one of horror.

Erickson opened his mouth to say something, when-

"HELP ME!" A woman's voice shrieked from the darkness. Quite a few members of the group started, almost letting off their guns.

"HELP ME, PLEASE! _OH GOD, HELP ME! PLEASE! SOMEBODY HELP ME!" _

"A victim," Rigg whispered, and then he was gone, charging back the way he came, listening out for the voice.

The group wasted no time in rushing after Rigg, Perez and Erickson catching up to him, Strahm and Hoffman not too far behind-

Strahm stopped, staring up at the doorway, as his comrades rushed through, and the trip-wire began to slowly tighten.

Strahm was at a crossroads. If he went in after them, e risked killing himself. However, if he did not, he risked being accused of being an accomplice to Jigsaw, something he absolutely could NOT stand.

"Fuck this," he whispered, and then charged in after them.

The trip-wire tightened. It was now active.

**XxX**

The cries of pain were coming from the end of the hallway. Rigg was in the lead, Perez and Erickson not two steps behind him, Tapp and Sing just behind them. Strahm kept to the back this time, moving slower than the others, keeping his flashlight focused on the ceiling. There were more traps about, he knew that for certain.

Unnoticed by the others, trip-wires all around them tightened, activating, ready to unleash certain death on those foolish enough to trigger them.

Rigg reached the end of the hallway, and simply stood there, uncomprehending. Erickson swept his flashlight about the room, and what he saw filled him with a kind of black rage. "Look at that," he said, lighting up a part of the wall with his flashlight. Rigg followed his gaze and swore loudly.

Welded onto the wall was a tape recorder, which was the source of the shrieks of pain. It was a recording, one that was quite familiar to Hoffman, as he knew the person shrieking on the tape. It was Melanie, when she had undergone her test, shouting in fear, those pleas to be freed eventually turning into obscene-filled roars.

"A recording," Rigg said furiously, pulling at the recorder, trying to wrench it from the wall, but to no avail. Hoffman had welded it too deeply to simply be able to be pulled out.

"A trap," Perez whispered. "Jigsaw isn't here. He wanted to lure us here, to-"

Her next words went unheard, as a SWAT man triggered one of the trip-wires. Strahm watched, dumbfounded, as a crossbow-like device mounted on the wall jerked into life, and an arrow flew from it, aimed directly at the man's jugular. There was a squelching sound, as the arrow lodged itself in the man's neck. His scream of surprise turned into a wet gurgle of pain. He fell to his knees, blood dripping between his white fingers, where he had clamped his hands reflexively around his own throat.

"No!" Rigg screamed, starting forward towards the dying man, hands outstretched. "Richardson!"

Erickson grabbed him around the forearm and held him back. "Don't get yourself killed as well!" He shouted, holding fast, making sure Rigg couldn't break free. The SWAT leader was desperate to reach his men, to get them out of the way, but, even as he watched, another man dropped beside the first man, trying to help him. The crossbow shuddered, and there was a _twanging _noise_, _as another arrow was propelled from the device, lodging itself throw the second man's left eye. He screamed, as he frantically tried to pull the arrow out, and the white liquid of his eye dribbled down his face.

Perez made a gagging noise, but managed to keep herself from bringing up her breakfast.

The man in front of Strahm moaned, as the man who got shot in the neck fell forward, dead. The one who had gotten shot in the eye had begun to spasm, his limbs jerking uncontrollably. "His brain," the guy in front of Strahm groaned. "Oh God, the arrow went through the guy's _brain-" _

At these words, another man strayed too close to the crossbow. The string arched, and another arrow loosed, aimed directly at the man in front of Strahm-

"_Look out!" _Strahm screamed, as the arrow pierced the man's face, right between the eyes. He jerked once, made an odd gargling noise, and then fell forward, his chin cracking against the ground. Strahm saw that the arrow had gone straight through the man's head- the arrow-tip was protruding from the other side, bits of bone and flesh and brain clinging to it. The man was perhaps luckier than the other two- he had died almost instantly, the arrow tearing through his brain as easily as anything.

Once the man had hit the ground, there was complete silence, as everyone digested what had happened to the three men. Finally, Perez broke it. "It's a trap," she said, voice trembling.

Sing and Tapp exchanged a glance. "What are we waiting for?" Sing shouted. "Let's get the fuck out of here!" Without waiting for anyone else to reply, he charged back the way he came.

Strahm squeezed his eyes shut. He knew what was going to happen next. Sing would trigger the-

The four shotguns roared, and there was a loud splattering noise, as Detective's Sing's head exploded. Strahm heard Tapp scream, and he couldn't tell if it was in horror or rage, because it seemed to be a combination of both, and then someone nearby really DID bring up the contents of their stomach, the vomit splattering the ground, and Strahm just stood there, his eyes squeezed shut, listening to it all.

"We're trapped," someone whispered, and Strahm forced himself to open his eyes. It had been Perez who had vomited- Strahm felt odd, seeing her coughing and spluttering on the ground- he wanted to walk over and wrap his arms around her, but of course he couldn't do that.

Strahm looked to his left, away from Sing's twitching body, and found himself staring at Hoffman, who still seemed calm and collected. He did not return Strahm's gaze, for which Strahm was grateful. His eyes lit on some jars in the corner of the room. Inside the jars were clusters of rusty nails. There was a digital timer atop them. It read one minute and ten seconds. As Strahm watched, the numbers ticked down slowly, deliberately, and he knew instantly that it was yet another trap.

"Hey!" He shouted, trying to gain everyone's attention. Once he was certain all eyes were on him, he pointed to the jars. "Nail bombs," he said simply. Everyone took in the timer atop the jars, and they began to panic, shouting at each other, trying to decide if they should go back the way they came or not.

"We can't do that!" Tapp shouted. "There's that fucking quadruple shotgun trap above the fucking doorway!"

"Where do we go, then?" Someone demanded. "I don't want to get shredded by those fucking bombs."

"It's a trap," Perez whimpered, pressing herself against the wall. Again, Strahm had that powerful urge to comfort her, but he did not. He had to try and figure out a way to escape from this trap. He leant against the wall, kneading his forehead, as everyone panicked, and he tried to figure out how they could possibly escape this hellhole.

From what he could tell, they were fucked. They could try to run back they way they came, and get their head blown apart by the four shotguns, or they could wait until the nail bombs went off, resulting in a very painful death. "Fuck," Strahm muttered, leaning against the wall. Something gave a little. He was off the wall in an instant, staring at the wall. There was an odd kind of edge on it...

He picked at the wall, tearing away bits of plaster, until his fingertips found a niche. "Hey!" He shouted, yanking at the niche, until part of the wall fell backwards- a door. "Hey!" He shouted again, waving at Perez and Erickson. "I found a door!"

Perez sat up, hope flaring in her chest, as she stared at the SWAT man standing opposite her, his grey-blue shining with passion. As soon as she saw him, she knew it was Strahm. "Peter!" She yelled joyfully, running to him, throwing her arms around him. Yes, he looked different, but she KNEW it was him, she knew it absolutely. No other man she knew had quite the same eye colour as he did. He smiled at her.

"Lindsey," he said, and his voice was full of wonder. For a moment, he looked incredibly handsome- he looked like a new man, a new Peter Strahm. Then he was pushing Perez through the door, gesturing wildly for Erickson, Rigg and Tapp to follow. They did so, glancing behind them almost guiltily, as the timer on the nail bombs began to count down from ten. Hoffman was nowhere to be seen.

"Hurry!" He hissed, slamming the door behind them, just as the bombs went off. The smoke crept under the door, and it made the five of them cough heavily, their eyes tearing up from the acrid smoke. Erickson waved a hand in front of his face, trying to clear the smoke away. Tapp leant against the wall, hacking away like an old man. Perez did her best to try and prevent herself from bringing up yet more food.

When the smoke eventually cleared, Erickson peered at the man who had saved them, the SWAT guy. "Jesus..." he whispered. "Is that you, Peter?"

Strahm nodded shamefacedly. "Yeah."

"What the hell are you doing here?" Erickson asked, his eyes narrowed, and his voice suspicious. "You're supposed to be resting at home."

"Can't we discuss this later?" Tapp snapped, wiping his brow. Erickson seemed a little abashed.

"Uh, yes. That might be more appropriate."

"What the fuck do we do know?" Rigg demanded. He glared at the five of them, and then kicked the door angrily. "We're still fucking trapped! We can stay here, and starve to death, or we can go out there and get shot in the fucking head!"

Strahm reached for his flashlight, and realized he had dropped it in his panic to open the door in the other room- he had also dropped his gun. "Anyone have a flashlight?" He asked.

Miraculously, Erickson did. He'd kept his in his pocket. He handed it to Strahm wordlessly. Strahm tested it. It still worked. He aimed the light towards the end of the room they were in.

It was actually a short hallway, and at the end was a heavy, iron door that stood open. Some kind of wire laced around the walls. As they watched, it began to hum ominously. "Don't touch the walls," Strahm warned them. "They're electrified."

"God," Tapp growled. "Someone didn't want us escaping, did they?"

"Think of how fucked we would be if we DIDN'T have a flashlight and I couldn't have told you about the walls," Strahm snapped back. Tapp was silent, possibly imaging how fucked they would be if there was no light.

"What do we do now?" Perez asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. Rigg gave her a withering look.

"What do you THINK we do, Agent Perez? WE HAVE TO FUCKING MOVE!"

"Hey!" Erickson shouted. Miraculously, Strahm saw that he still had his handgun. "Let's just keep calm..."

"I CAN'T!" Rigg screamed, pointing behind the door. Feeling sick, Strahm aimed the flashlight in that general direction.

"Oh, _fuck..." _Behind the door were yet more nail bombs. The timer nearby proclaimed that they had a little more than fifty seconds to rush inside the room at the end.

Strahm took Perez's hand. "Lindsey, we have to go. NOW." Without another word, he pulled her along the hallway, his comrades not a second behind him. They sprinted along, careful not to brush the walls even slightly. They were just about to reach the door when Tapp fell.

"SHIT!"

Strahm was not sure if it was Erickson or Rigg who said that, but he didn't care, he had to try and help Tapp-

What Strahm saw next made him feel sick to his stomach. David Tapp had fallen into a pit of some sort, and at the bottom-

-Were dozens upon dozens of upturned, jagged blades. They had penetrated through Tapp's forearms, the tips standing taut and erect, bits of flesh and muscle clinging to them. The blades had also poked through Tapp's abdomen, and his chest, and-

"Ohhh..."

-They had gone through Tapp's head, and blobs of reddish brains were sticking to the blades, as was blood and scraps of skin.

Miraculously, Tapp was still alive. He stared at them with one eye, his chest heaving. He opened his mouth, and blood dribbled out. "Ba-Bast-Bastards..." He gurgled, glaring at Strahm, who stared back in horror, until Perez grabbed his arm.

"Peter, there's nothing you can do for him! We have to go NOW!" She screamed, pulling him around the pit, and towards the door, and the timer on the jars had fifteen seconds to go-

The two of them burst through into the room. As soon as they did so, gasping and shuddering, the iron door slammed shut, sealing them in darkness. At the same moment, the nail bombs went off.

Strahm was finding it hard to breathe. He felt dizzy, and he sucked in a great whooping gasp, hands reaching out blindly for something to hold onto. Perez took his reaching hands and held them to close to her. "Peter, its okay..." she whispered.

"Oh, God," Strahm heard someone saying. They were saying it over and over, in a high-pitched voice of panic, merely repeating those two words, over and over...

After a while, Strahm discovered that it was him who was making the noise. As soon as he realized that, he clamped his jaw shut and forced himself to breathe normally. "Anyone got a light?" He croaked.

"What?"

"Does anyone have a flashlight?" He asked, more loudly. Someone, he wasn't sure who, handed him one. He turned it on, and it turned out to be Rigg who had handed him the flashlight.

"Thanks," Strahm whispered. Rigg shrugged, keeping close. Erickson hovered nearby, his face ashen. Strahm swept his light across the room, and he saw a deadly-looking device, a chair lined with hundreds upon hundreds of rusty nails. Most of them had blood on them. Perez made a gagging noise, as she realized that a strip of yellowing flesh hung off one of the armrests. Though they did not know it, they were looking at the Iron Chair Trap.

"Christ," Erickson whispered. He then turned to everyone else. "What do we do now?"

"I say we get the fuck out of here!" Rigg cried, his voice high-pitched with panic.

"We haven't got anywhere to go," Perez said matter-of-factly. "That iron door was the only way out. We're sealed in here."

Rigg simply stared at her. "This is Jigsaw we're talking about. Strahm found that fucking door, and we escaped when we shouldn't have! There's got to be another fucking hidden door SOMEWHERE!" In his agitation, he began to walk around the room, touching the walls at random, trying to find an edge that could be a door, a way out. When he found none, he threw his hands in the air. "FUCK!"

"Try and relax," Erickson said, his voice barely more than a whisper. Rigg glared at him.

"Fuck that!" He ran towards the door, and began banging on it furiously. "You sick bastard! LET US THE FUCK OUT! YOU HEAR ME? LET US THE FUCK _OUT!" _

"That's not going to help," Erickson said, trying to remain calm himself. Then he saw what was hanging directly over where Rigg was standing: several sprinklers. "Oh, no," he muttered to himself, seeing the smoke from the nails bombs creep under the door- the door had been deliberately made so that the smoke could creep under, Erickson realized. Looking up at the sprinklers again, he saw a smoke alarm. The smoke alarm would trigger the sprinklers. And what was in those sprinklers...Erickson didn't want to know. "Rigg, get away from there," he ordered. Rigg ignored him and kept pounding at the door. "No," Erickson whispered. He turned to Strahm, and he saw that the man had realized the same thing as well: Rigg was fucked.

Erickson grimaced, as the smoke snaked upwards, dangerously close to the sprinklers, and...

The sprinklers sprang to life.

Daniel Rigg screamed in pain, as the acid in the sprinklers splashed down on him, and his flesh began to sizzle, as the acid ate through his skin. "NO!" He bellowed, trying to shield himself with his arms, but it was too late. The acid was already doing its work. It ate through the flesh on the top of his head, and gnawed its way through his skull.

Strahm, Perez, and Erickson could only stare, as the acid bit into Rigg's brain. He began to spasm horribly, as his brain was quickly eaten away by the acid. "No," Perez whispered, making more retching noises, falling to her knees. Rigg jerked a few more times, before his lifeless body fell to the ground, the top of his head dissolved completely, showing a large hole in the middle of his skull, and the mushy remains of his brain. His fingers twitched twice mindlessly, before he became completely still.

"Oh God..." Perez croaked. Strahm continued to stare at the sprinklers, which soon turned off after Daniel Rigg's downfall.

"Everything had been pre-thought out by him," Strahm realized. "He knew we would escape. He knew someone would stay near the door. He...oh, _fuck, he knew everything!" _His voice was hysterical, very much like it had been when he had seen the Jigsaw puppet ride into view at the Dwyer residence, and it had opened its mouth and it had LAUGHED at him-

"Strahm," Erickson said, pointing to the door. "There's something on the other side. I can see it glittering."

"Don't go near it," Perez croaked. Erickson ignored her and moved forward, stepping over Rigg's body as though it were nothing but a pile of leaves. He stared at the door.

"There's a peephole," he said, sounding surprised. Despite himself, he leant forward, intending to look through it. His eye was level with the peephole when-

A pistol on the other side went off, firing a bullet into Erickson's right eye and exiting through the back of his head, the flesh opening up like a huge, gaping hole. Blood blossomed and stained Erickson's white shirt crimson. "NO!" Perez screamed, and, because there was nothing else he could do, Strahm held onto her, pressing her tight to his chest. He held her as she sobbed, watching Erickson's body fall backwards, the white jelly of his eye splashed all over his surprised face. The _crack _his head made against the pavement made Strahm wince.

Suddenly, the only thing he could do was push Perez away, and sick up what he had eaten that morning. It felt good to empty his stomach. He coughed a few more times, kneeling on the cool ground, and he wiped his mouth hastily, to find Perez staring at the chair device. "There's a cassette player hanging off the armrest," she said, and her voice was strangely empty. "I think we should listen to it, Strahm." She turned to him, her face appearing that of a corpse. "I really think we should, Strahm."

"I think we should stay right here," Strahm croaked. Perez ignored him and stepped forward, not seeing the active, tight trip-wire just centimetres in front of her. However, Strahm did. "Lindsey, get the FUCK BACK HERE!" He screamed, feeling as though his throat might tear. Perez turned back towards him, a sad smile on her face.

"We're dead anyway, so what can it hurt, Peter?" She stepped forward.

It all happened very quickly then. A flash of silver. The scream of metal. The _thud _of metal grinding into flesh. A small gasp of pain.

Strahm leapt to his feet, not believing what he was seeing: Perez standing up, with two axes wedged into either side of her abdomen. Blood poured from her like a red river. Her face was chalk-white, as she went into shock. Her hand reached for the player uselessly, and then Strahm realized what he was seeing: his partner, dying.

"_NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" _The cry did not sound human; it was as if Peter Strahm had disappeared, and a monster was in his place. He howled like a wolf, and tugged uselessly at the axes wedged into his partner, and her eyes met his. Her lips, which were turning blue, struggled to form words.

"Peter..."

Strahm met her dying eyes with his crazed, wild ones, and it was in that moment that Perez knew that she had to say what she had wanted to tell him for months now, before she died.

"I...love..." She said, and died.

Strahm stared at her for a moment, before letting out another scream of agony. He was crying; the teardrops made tracks in his ashen face, and he fell to the ground, his entire body shuddering uncontrollably.

"_NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" _

Something caught his eye, and it cut the wild-animal howl short. The cassette player. She had nearly reached it. Sobbing, Strahm reached for it, not caring whether it activated a trap or not, not caring whether he died or not, just wanting to hear the contents of that tape. With shaking fingers, he struggled to press 'play.'

A moment of silence, and then a voice began to speak. It was not the raspy voice of John Kramer, but the cool, calm voice of a young woman- Melanie Dwyer.

"_Hello, Agent Strahm. I truly appreciate what you've been trying to do for me, but rest assured- I no longer need saving. Someone else has saved from the path I was going down- the same path that liars, thieves, and murderers tread. I've found myself a saviour at last...Do you know what the cure for cancer is, Agent Strahm? How about the cure to death itself? The answer is...immortality. By creating a legacy, by living a life worth remembering, you become immortal. It is I who will eventually continue John's work after he dies, and, now that you know this, you cannot leave. The secret must die with you. Game over." _

Strahm began to scream.


	14. Anticipating the human mind

**September 24****th****, 1997- Anticipating the human mind.**

Hoffman paused in his work- which was currently helping Melanie set up the funeral parlour as the FBI's personal hell- and he frowned at the young woman who had a smug, self-satisfied grin plastered on her face. She had just explained what she hoped would happen to the FBI when they raided the funeral parlour. "You're assuming this is going to play out the way you want it," he said.

Her smile faded slightly. "I shouldn't assume anything," she admitted, turning back to the crossbow device she was working on.

"That's what John told me," Hoffman said, after a brief moment of silence. Melanie's eyes flickered- she obviously had not been expecting a reply. Angelina was smiling at Hoffman, and she was patting his arm reassuringly- an arm that was now more transparent that ever. He stole a glance at his sister, and ploughed on recklessly: "I said the same thing to him as I just did to you. You know what his answer was?"

"What was it?" Melanie asked, meeting the detective's blue eyes with her own, startlingly green ones. They were rather pretty, Hoffman thought, his mouth curving up in a slight smile- it was almost a smirk.

"His exact words were: 'I assume nothing. I anticipate the possibilities, and I let the game play out'."

"Oh?" Her eyes narrowed slightly, and Hoffman was reminded strongly of Amanda, actually seeing her standing before him for a moment, before he blinked a few times, and he continued on:

"John had only a few traps when he was making that game, and all of the participants died. You're overdoing it here, Melanie. You're doing what Amanda has started to do; you're not giving them a chance to appreciate their lives, you're creating death traps with no means of escape. John would never do that- you shouldn't either. Otherwise..."

"What?" Melanie asked, and she inched closer to Hoffman, scared perhaps that someone could overhear them- but who would be able to? John? Amanda? They were safely out of the way; in a new lair, somewhere hidden from the FBI. Hoffman gazed into Melanie's face, letting no emotion show, but secretly enjoying how pretty she was, how goddamn PRETTY she was- a quality Amanda seemed to lack.

He blinked, turning his attention to the nail bomb he was making. He considered his next words very carefully. He didn't want to offend Melanie, but he didn't want to seem like he was coddling her, either. "You'll fail John," he finally answered, placing the now-deadly jar aside and beginning to make another. "And the consequences for failing John are great: death. Do you really want to die so early in the game, Melanie?"

"Game?" She asked, not understanding. Hoffman cursed inwardly- she wasn't supposed to know that she was being tested. He hoped that she decided that his play on words meant nothing. He watched from the corner of his eye, as Melanie processed this. "Oh!" She said, and he knew that she didn't really know, that she was just guessing- but that was perfectly fine by him. She nodded to herself, inserting an arrow into the crossbow, being careful not to have it aimed at either of them- it would fire with deadly accuracy, and would almost certainly cause death should it land in the right place. "No," she said. "I don't want to fail John- I want to carry on his work after he dies."

"Then take my advice, Melanie," Hoffman murmured, now placing a few nails in another jar- he was really getting quite good at creating these nail bombs. "Knock off a few of the traps."

She sighed. Hoffman could tell she wasn't happy with the idea- she wanted to see those FBI assholes die- but she certainly didn't want to fail John, either. "Okay," she finally said, inserting another arrow. "I'll drop a few. But not the crossbow. Not after all the goddamned work I've spent on it."

Hoffman nodded. "I wasn't expecting you to drop that one. It's good...it's original."

She smiled a little at that. "Thank you."

"No problem," he replied, stealing another glance at the pretty woman beside him, who was almost finished with the crossbow, her short black hair all spiked up- like a rockstar. Her make-up was carefully applied, covering up the nasty gash across her face. He could still see it, of course, but now it looked like it was weeks instead of days old.

He smiled ruefully, hiding the smile by focusing his attention back onto the nail bombs- a trap that he knew Melanie would refuse to drop. She had no idea that the funeral parlour was her initiation test- to see if she truly belonged with John. If she didn't, then either Hoffman or Amanda would have to kill her, because she couldn't be trusted not to go to the FBI (Who were supposed to be arriving in a few hours- with company- this was something Melanie knew for certain, because she had hacked into the FBI database and learned of their discovery of the funeral parlour- an act that would surely come with consequences later).

"What ones should I drop?" She wondered, finishing with the crossbow at last. She turned to Hoffman, looking slightly confused- she wanted comforting, something Hoffman would be unable to do. He was slightly irritated with her now- the FBI were coming soon, and they really had to bust their asses to get everything in order before the FBI came and ruined everything! AND he had to go meet up with Agent Perez and Agent Erickson half an hour before the raid- otherwise everything would go up in smoke.

He wasn't supposed to help Melanie in her test- but he could not afford to simply leave her on her on, either. She was new to the game- and she was more than a little out of her depth, and that was what made Hoffman feel like he HAD to help her- like it was his DUTY.

He realized that she was still waiting for an answer. Grimacing slightly, he fixed his cold eyes on her. "I'm not going to tell you," he said simply, moving away from her. Sensing her frustration, he pulled his mouth into a feeble attempt at a comforting smile. "It's up to you," he added, as if that explained everything. Which, of course, it did.

Melanie frowned at him, her eyes probing his, searching for some kind of inner emotion- emotion that she would not be able to find. Hoffman returned her intense gaze for a while, enjoying her frustration with him.

"I don't know," she said finally, desperately.

Hoffman turned away, pulling his suit jacket over his shirt. He was done helping her set up the parlour. She made a frustrated noise, kind of like an angry cat, and he turned back towards her, his cold eyes not giving anything away. "It's your game. You decide."

**XxX**

Special Agent Lindsey Perez held the tape recorder near her face, thinking hard. It was not the same tape that she and Erickson had studied endlessly; it was an empty one- it was her only way of expressing her feelings to herself these days, because she had long outgrown the time when she could simply write things down in a diary. Talking to herself, recording her voice, and playing it back soothed her more than writing ever could.

Yes, she knew there was little more than two hours left until the raid was due to start, but there she sat, still clad in her pyjamas, with a tape recorder in one hand, staring up at the ceiling of her modern home. She knew she had to get ready, but in order for her to do her job well, she had to get things off of her chest. She couldn't do her job efficiently if she did not have a clear head.

"Where do I begin?" She murmured, her voice sounding strangely strained and pathetic. She hit the record button- no matter how pathetic she sounded when talking to the tape recorder, playing it back just ten minutes later soothed her, cleared her head a little. She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I've got a raid today," she said, swallowing- the fact that she was going after Jigsaw made her more than a little nervous. "This could be the big one. We might be able to catch Jigsaw and Amanda Young and stop the murders once and for all." She sighed again, her attention now focused entirely on that tiny little machine, which continued to record her. "I only wish Peter was going to be there. He's been working for this sort of confrontation for a long time, and, now that it's finally upon us, he can't be there. And..." She swallowed once more, tears starting to spill out of her eyes. Gulping several times, she brushed them away impatiently and continued with her narration. "...It's my entire fault that he can't be there. I had to intervene and push him off the case, so he could get BETTER..."

How stupid she had been. To remove Peter Strahm from a Jigsaw case was not only removing the best chance they had at catching Jigsaw and Amanda Young, but it was also removing Perez's comfort zone- he was like her knight in shining armour. Yes, that was perhaps a naive and callous way of putting it, but she took great comfort in having him nearby. He was so logical, so damn _smart, _that she felt exposed when he was not around. She felt _vulnerable. _

She wiped another few tears away, almost angrily. "What's done is done," she whispered. "I can only hope that Peter can forgive once all of this shit's over." Somehow, she thought that he would be able to forgive her, but there would be a sore spot there for the rest of their working lives. He might even be proud that she was present when Jigsaw and Amanda were captured, yes, he might be proud of her, that she continued his work when he was unable.

Was that too naive of her, to hope for something as miraculous as that?

Perhaps so. Peter may not even speak to her- indeed, he may even ask to be re-assigned to another FBI agent! The thought made Perez sick to her stomach. Oh, she liked the other agents well enough- most were nice enough to buy her a cup of coffee when she really needed it- but they weren't Peter. No-one could replace Peter Strahm- she never felt as safe with any other agents than she did with him.

As she stared at the ever-so-patient tape recorder, she had a most curious (if somewhat alarming) dialogue with herself:

_-Am I falling in love?_

-No, of course not.

_-Maybe. Maybe I am._

-Don't be stupid, Lindsey. Remember the last time your heart was involved? He stepped all over you and then spat on you. Do you want that to happen again?

_-Peter's different than him. He won't hurt me._

-No, of course he won't. But he won't be happy with you, will he? If you showed up at his house, he'll be so fucking PISSED-

The phone rang, interrupting the bizarre conversation. Perez gratefully leapt for it, knocking the recorder off of her bed. "Hello?" She asked, a little breathlessly.

"Hello, is that Agent Perez?"

"Yes." She couldn't place whom to which the voice belonged to. It was male, that she knew for sure, and whoever it was sounded slightly agitated.

"Ah! Agent Perez, this is Detective Sing. I'm calling to ask you something in regards to the Jigsaw raid later this morning."

Now she knew who the person was. Detective Sing was a man in his mid-thirties, of Asian heritage (though he did not sound it), and was the partner of detective David Tapp. Tapp had dealt with Jigsaw before (or rather, a victim: the very same woman who was now an accomplice to Jigsaw- Amanda Young), and so knew a little about Amanda's past. "Yes?" Perez asked, curling her fingers with the phone cord.

Sing paused. "I have, ah, heard that you needed as many people as possible with experience with either Jigsaw or Amanda Young."

"Yes?" She kept her inquiries short, not because she disliked Sing, but because she honestly could not think of a better response. Thankfully, Sing did not seem offended.

"As you may or may not know, my partner, David Tapp, has had some experience with Jigsaw's accomplice, Amanda Young, and he was hoping that perhaps he could join you on the raid today?"

Perez smiled a little. "Normally, I'd have to consult Agent Erickson before confirming, but somehow, I doubt he'd mind if you and Tapp tagged along today."

"Great." Sing sounded enthused. "About nine, wasn't it? The time you guys were starting the raid?"

"Yes, that's right." Perez glanced at the clock, and she cursed inwardly. "In fact, I should be there now. Please don't take offence, Steven, but I really do have to get going, otherwise I'm going to be late." She listened for a while longer, and then hung up, wiping her brow in the same manner Strahm used to do. It was some time before she realized that she was imitating him. In fact, even when she was speaking to Steven Sing, she had mimicked Strahm's slightly patronising (and somewhat sarcastic) manner.

She sighed.

**XxX**

Peter Strahm was frustrated. The raid was to occur in a few short hours, and he was to miss out on it! The chance to catch Jigsaw and Amanda Young for good!

Of course, he knew Perez had meant well when she had dismissed him from the case, but that didn't mean he wasn't frustrated with her- he might even go so far as to say that he was angry with her.

No, that wasn't quite right- he WASN'T angry with Perez- he was angry at how damned HELPLESS he was, unable to do a single thing to aid in the capture of the two murderers who had eluded the law for some time now.

He wanted to do SOMETHING, even if it meant that there were consequences later on. He kneaded his forehead, agitated.

If only there was _something _he could do, _ANYTHING..._

His eyes lit on an unmarked SWAT van driving by. He smiled. He had an idea. His friend was part of the SWAT team. He would help- he HAD to!

Excited, Strahm punched in the eight numbers that may very well be the key to his freedom. A slight pause, as he waited for him to pick up. Then-

"Hello?"

"Hello, Chas." Strahm fought to keep the excitement out of his voice. If Chas knew just how goddamned excited Strahm was, then there was a chance that he might refuse. "I need you to help me with something."

**XxX**

The faces of the SWAT men showed not the slightest hint of fright. In fact, many of them were grinning, fingering their weapons almost lovingly, undoubtedly imagining what it would feel like to pour bullets into Jigsaw and Amanda Young, to see them subdue before them, for once not being able to elude them, but succumbing to them quietly, and having their miserable asses rot in jail.

Indeed, it was a fantasy that even Lindsey Perez had trouble dismissing. She could imagine it; imagine how great it would feel to have assisted in the capture of the two fugitives, to rid the world of two particularly bizarre murderers forever.

She had arrived slightly late- late enough for Erickson to scowl at her and for Sing and Tapp to arrive before her. To her boss, she had given an apologetic shrug, and she had rushed forward to greet the two detectives.

She was familiar with Steven Sing, but his partner, a huge, solidly-built black man called David Tapp was completely new to her. He was in his early fifties, and had an air about him that put Perez on edge. He was tensed for a fight, and, when introduced to the somewhat-nervous FBI agent, he did not smile, nor did he offer her his hand. Perez was not offended, but she was a little surprised at Tapp's standoffishness. She glanced at Sing, who shrugged and smiled apologetically. Apparently, Tapp was like this with whoever he met. Perez took some small comfort in that she was not the only one who was treated this way.

There was a somewhat awkward silence, in which Perez hovered around the two men, fiddling with her handgun idly, and Sing hummed tunelessly to himself, and Tapp stared straight ahead of him. They stayed that way for a few moments, until Erickson arrived. Grateful, Perez jumped forward. "Erickson," she said, her voice positively dripping with relief. He smiled at her.

"Lindsey," he replied pleasantly. "Are you ready for this?"

She hoped he wouldn't notice the slight tremble in her voice. "As ready as I can ever be." Erickson watched her for a few moments, apparently to see if she was telling the truth. Satisfied, he turned to Tapp and Sing.

"Gentlemen," he said, offering his hand to Sing, who took it and pumped it enthusiastically. "I'm Special Agent Erickson. You've met Special Agent Perez."

Sing nodded. "She said we could tag along on the raid today." Tapp nodded as well, a shade too late to be in sync with Sing's.

"Yes, yes, it's all been arranged. Detective Tapp, you say you have had experience with Amanda Young before?" Tapp nodded. Erickson's smile faded slightly. "Well, please, enlighten us. Any information in regards to Amanda Young is crucial. We have no idea of how she might react."

Tapp cleared his throat. To Perez, the noise was deep and guttural, not the sound of a throat-clearing at all, but rather, someone choking. When he spoke, she was amazed at how deep his voice really was. "In the brief interview we had with Miss Young," Tapp began, looking anywhere but not at the two FBI agents, "She was shell-shocked, but, even then, we could tell that she was deeply disturbed. Another detective in our department, Detective Eric Mathews, discovered that she was a heavy heroin user, and she was moved to Oregon County Prison. There, her mental state declined rapidly. She continually injected herself with drugs, and also put a blade to her wrist on more than one occasion. She broke out of prison, and not long after, she was abducted by Jigsaw. She had a heavy apparatus placed on her head, designed to rip her mouth wide open should she fail her 'test'." His lip curled in heavy disgust. "She survived, and later in her interview, she claimed that Jigsaw 'helped' her."

"She acts entirely on impulse or emotion," Sing broke in, eager perhaps to have a say in all of this. "She's easily angered."

"So, if we were to raid the parlour while she was there..." Erickson began, smiling lightly.

"Yeah. She might try to attack."

"And doing so might make her all the more easier to take down..." Erickson finished, now grinning broadly.

"Sounds like a plan," a deep, masculine voice said. All four people turned, to see Detective Mark Hoffman smiling at them. He was standing in the doorway, his brown hair ruffled and slightly out of place. His eyes swept the room briefly, taking in the small group of detectives and FBI agents, the lone, average, low-ranking cop, the Chief of police, and the rather large group of SWAT men, his eyes settling on a particular man who was in his early forties, with short brown hair and the oddest colour of eyes- gray-blue.

In fact, Hoffman had only seen one other man with the same eye colour- and that was Peter Strahm of the FBI. The men were one and the same. Peter Strahm was going on the fucking raid after all, disguised as a SWAT guy. Hell, if it wasn't for his eyes, he'd be almost unrecognisable.

Though the sight of Peter Strahm infuriated Hoffman immensely, he kept it to himself, focusing his gaze back on the two FBI agents standing before him. He even managed to pull his mouth up in a passable imitation of a smile. "Agent Erickson." He said, shaking hands with Erickson, perhaps gripping the man's hand a bit too lightly than what the situation required, but the agent gave no sign that Hoffman was hurting him. He nodded to Tapp and Sing, having talked with them just yesterday. With nothing to say to Hoffman, Tapp merely walked away, choosing an isolated corner, where he could observe the whole room. Hoffman shrugged and turned those blue eyes of his to Agent Perez.

She was in her late twenties, and she was pretty, Hoffman thought, as he murmured her name and clasped her hand briefly. Even without looking, he could tell that there was no wedding ring there- he would have been able to feel it if there was. Her hand was bare, like his. He studied her face, his eyes searching her own, checking to see if she was aware that Strahm was but a few feet away.

Perez wanted to shrink under Hoffman's intense gaze, but she knew that by doing so, she would be setting herself for ridicule later on. Why should she, a member of the FBI, quail under the gaze of someone lower in rank than her? He was a mere detective, for Christ's sake! "Detective Hoffman," she said curtly, pulling her hand out of his, "I was not aware that you were assigned to this raid."

The man before her blinked. "Oh, well," he began, a little uncomfortably, "Since I've been chasing Jigsaw from the beginning, I figured you could use the extra help."

"Of course," Erickson said, moving in between the two, which was perhaps for the best, as Perez was suspicious of Hoffman. Why, she hadn't the faintest idea. But there was something about Mark Hoffman that unsettled her. "We need all the help we can get. It's good of you to come. Lindsey, wouldn't you say the same?"

Perez chose her words carefully. She didn't want Hoffman to know that she was suspicious of him. He had, after all, dealt with Jigsaw more so than Tapp and Sing, and he was a valuable addition to the party. "Yes," she finally answered. "Of course."

Erickson smiled and turned back to Sing. When his back was turned, Hoffman let his smile fade away, to be replaced by his lip curling in disgust, as he glared at Perez. He was glad she was going to die soon. He hated the stupid bitch.

Angelina couldn't agree more, as she, too, glared at Perez's figure. Once she was well out of earshot, she leant over and whispered in her brother's ear: "Now the fun and games can REALLY begin."

Hoffman chuckled a little, glancing at his watch as he did so. There were two minutes before nine. He waited until they were up, and he sneered at them, at them all, all those who were going to die. "It's time to begin our game."

**XxX**

The commander of the SWAT team was none other than Daniel Rigg, a man who was even larger than David Tapp. He was enormous, but he was a man with a kind heart, and it was he who approached Strahm not long after the overhead clock struck nine.

After working with Rigg before, Strahm was more than a little surprised when he did not recognize him. Sure, he had dressed up a little, and he had cut his hair shorter, but he was still the same man as before. Wasn't he?

"McDermott," Rigg said, clapping Strahm on the shoulder. The act should not have scared him, but, since his attention had been focused on Perez (who looked so goddamn PRETTY today), it caught him by surprise. He gave an odd kind of yelp and looked around wildly, before his eyes settled on Rigg's kind, amused face. "Sorry if I scared you," he apologized. Strahm held up his hands and grinned embarrassedly.

"Hey, it's not your fault, sir, it's mine." He was unaccustomed to calling people 'sir.' Sure, Erickson was his boss, but he called his 'Erickson', not 'sir'.

"If you say so," Rigg replied. "Anyway, look lively, McDermott. We're gonna go into the depths of hell soon." He grinned, apparently amused at his own 'joke.' "You ready for this?" He asked, sombre once again.

"Hell yeah, sir," Strahm replied.

"Good man!" Rigg boomed. "You're on the ball today!" After one last shoulder-squeeze, he moved on to the other members of the SWAT team, joking with some, and reassuring others.

Strahm was pleased with his disguise. He was disguised as Chas McDermott, the person whom he had rung but an hour and a half before. He had been more than happy to help Strahm clean himself up- he had even helped with the hair-cutting. Or, as what seemed more appropriate, hair-slashing. Strahm's hair was now totally unlike how it used to be. He had shaved- and, in the days that he had been recuperating at home, he had actually eaten something, and made sure he went to bed early. He had gained a little weight, not enough to be classed as 'healthy', but sure as hell a lot better than he had been before.

Now that he thought about it, he really owed Perez his life, because, in a way, she had saved him, by making him eat and look after himself. Hell, he owed her EVERYTHING. She had saved him.

Goddamn, she was so smart. And caring. And she was absolutely everything that he, Strahm, was not. She was simply an amazing person, and, during those few days he had spent alone, he had missed her. It was strange, because he spent so much time snapping at her, that he had never really realized how much she had really cared about him, and how valuable she was to their partnership.

If he saw her again in the near-future, and had a chance to speak to her, he would tell her how important she was to him, and how grateful he was to her.

He couldn't go and talk to her now. He was disguised as his best friend, Chas McDermott, and a SWAT guy going up to talk to an FBI agent? That would look more than a little odd, and, assuming Perez even recognized him, he would probably be taken off the case permanently- hell, he might even lose his job! If he lost his job, he'd NEVER get a chance to speak to Perez again, and she would more than likely not want to talk to him, anyway.

That idea was more than a little depressing, Strahm thought, as he and eleven other SWAT men climbed into an unmarked van. Rigg was driving, and he, Strahm, was forced to climb into a space that was not meant to house twelve men. He forced himself into a corner, with his back against the door, and his right leg underneath someone else's, and his left arm wedged in between two other people. Someone's ass was dangerously close.

Masquerading as a SWAT guy felt so degrading, Strahm thought, as he peered through the tiny, shit-ass window, and he saw Perez climb gracefully into a sleek black Sedan. Erickson was driving. Hoffman got into his mountain of a car behind them, with Tapp and Sing in the backseat.

Perez seemed to feel Strahm's eyes on her, for she turned and looked straight at him. She smiled, and he managed a small smile in return, before the van swerved alarmingly, and Strahm was thrust against another two people. "Hey, watch it!" One of them grunted.

"Sorry," Strahm muttered, annoyed. It wasn't like he could help it- he was naturally defensive.

The man said something in retort, but Strahm didn't listen. He simply positioned himself as best he could against the wall and closed his eyes. It may have sounded odd, but Peter Strahm wanted a moment of quiet, before he was thrust into the hellish world of John Kramer- the Jigsaw Killer.

**XxX**

The funeral parlour was definitely dismal-enough-looking to be a Jigsaw lair, Perez noted, as she eased herself out of the Sedan, glancing around for the SWAT man who had smiled at her. He had been handsome...and oddly familiar. In fact, Perez was sure that she had seen the man before. But where, she wondered, as she joined Erickson and the others at the front door of the parlour. Rigg assembled his men into a line, and he barked orders at them consistently, telling them to not lose focus, to obey every order that he gave, to be sure to take down Jigsaw and Amanda, and above all, to inform the others of any traps that they may find. Perez scanned the group but did not find the man who had smiled at her.

"Agent Perez," Hoffman said, appearing at her side suddenly. He surprised her, and she leapt what must have been a foot in the air. He smiled apologetically. "Sorry. But we need you up front, Agent Perez."

"Yes...of course," she said, allowing herself to be led to the front of the party, where Erickson was sorting everyone into groups. There were to be two groups: squadron A and squadron B. Squadron A would go first, and it consisted of Tapp, Sing, Hoffman, Erickson, Perez, and five SWAT men- which, Perez noted somewhat delightedly, included the familiar man.

Perez and Erickson would go first, flanked by Tapp, Sing and Hoffman. The SWAT men would be close behind.

"Alright," Erickson said, waving his arms for quiet. Everyone fell silent and turned their attention towards him. He was an inspiring figure, clad in his black suit, and authority just _eradicated _off of him. "Remember that John Kramer and Amanda Young are our main priorities. However, if anyone happens across a trap, alert us immediately. It is absolutely crucial that we do our best to keep everyone here alive and in one piece." His words had an alarming effect on some of the men. Evidently, they had not thought about the fact that death today was a very real possibility. Most shuddered and trembled, clutching their guns to them as though they were their first-born children, though a few of the soldiers, familiar man included, looked around impassively, as if they already knew that, and it was no real shock to them.

"Are we all ready?" Erickson asked, handgun out. The detectives and FBI agents nodded. Rigg barked out a few more orders, and then two SWAT men hurried forward, with a door-breaker clenched between them. Rigg shouted another order, and the two men slammed the door-breaker against the door, and it broke away easily.

"GO, GO, GO!" Erickson and Rigg shouted in unison, and Perez charged forward, gun at the ready, and there was Erickson beside her, and there was Sing on her other side, holding his shotgun taut. Tapp ambled along, his tiny pistol looking like a mere toy next to the SWAT's arsenal of weapons.

Once they were actually inside the building, they proceeded slowly, pulling out flashlights and aiming them into corners, wary. Strahm edged closer to Perez, wanting to be near her. The gun he held felt heavy and bulky- he wanted his handgun back, but Chas had told him SWAT men weren't allowed to carry one. To masquerade as a SWAT man properly, Chas had said that Strahm would have to make some sacrifices. Oh, Strahm didn't mind that- part of his job as an FBI agent _required _sacrifices to be made.

Some of the men beside Strahm had not even lit their flashlights, and were muttering ominously about how useless all of this was. Strahm felt like screaming at them- did they not know the magnitude of danger they were in? This was JIGSAW they were talking about- he had eluded capture more than once, and he had had security traps built and erected in the most unlikely of places.

Very rarely were Jigsaw's traps on the ground. He wanted to catch them by surprise, so the best place to have traps would undoubtedly be the ceiling. Feeling slightly queasy, Strahm aimed his flashlight up at the ceiling. Nothing. He let out a deep breath he had not realized he'd been holding.

"This is fucking bullshit," someone muttered angrily. "This isn't a lair- it's a fucking abandoned building." Strahm bit his cheek to keep himself from snapping at the other man- doing so would not get him anywhere, and may even get himself discovered by Erickson and getting himself fired. Blood swelled, and Strahm's mouth was filled with the salty taste. He grimaced, and quietly spat the mouthful of blood into his fist, and then wiped it on his trouser leg. Yes, it wasn't particularly nice, but he could hardly walk around with a mouthful of blood, could he?

Rigg growled at the man to be quiet. Strahm smiled slightly. It might be snobby, but he was happy that the man had been reprimanded- what NOBODY needed was someone shooting their mouth off, especially not now.

Beats of sweat rolled down Tapp's forehead, as he and Sing moved forwards with Hoffman, who alone seemed rather calm and collected. Sing was squinting into the darkness, not having a flashlight of his own, his finger poised at the trigger of his gun, ready to pour bullets into the first thing that caught him by surprise. Tapp was, if possible, even more tense. His muscles strained against his white shirt, indicating that he, too, was ready to fire upon the first thing he saw, whether it be friend or foe.

They moved into the reception area. The blade wedged into the wall where Hoffman had hung his pig mask just days before was now gone- but a large hole remained in the plaster. The reception desk was littered with papers- papers which-

"Holy shit," Rigg whispered, holding one up for them all to see. It was a sketch of a coffin on a conveyor belt, which led into a furnace. Inside the coffin, Jigsaw had drawn a rough sketch of a young man, who appeared to be cuffed to the bottom of the coffin. In one hand, he held a knife. Around his wrist was a cassette player. At the bottom of the page were the words RAYMOND MOORE, slashed across the page in red ink.

Hoffman smiled in the near-darkness. He had left the sketch there to further prod the victims into playing Melanie's game. It had been Hoffman who had drawn the picture, because John had been unable to, given his condition. However, Hoffman had NOT come up with the idea himself- that had been John.

When he saw the picture, Strahm couldn't help his reaction. HE stopped in his tracks, and stared at the picture with such wide-eyed wonder that it was a miracle that no-one realized who he was. The man in the picture was Kael's friend, Raymond Moore, the depressive pyromaniac, the one who had been ambushed inside his own apartment.

Thankfully, Strahm's reaction was mirrored by that of Perez, who let out an audible gasp, drawing whatever attention Strahm momentarily had onto herself. "You recognize this guy?" Rigg asked, frowning.

"Yes," Perez gasped, nodding frantically. "Yes, I recognize him. He's a pyromaniac, and Peter and I saw a tape..."

"A tape?" Hoffman inquired sharply. "What kind of tape?"

"It was a security tape," Perez said breathlessly, taking the paper from Rigg. Strahm noted with pride that she had continued his research, even after he had been taken off the case. "We knew Jigsaw was after Moore, and we went after him, but by the time we got there, he was gone. Peter demanded to see the security tape, because there was a camera right outside of Moore's door, because he lives right near the reception area, and we saw a man wearing Jigsaw's attire leap out and accost Moore. Then the tape went blank. I suppose this drawing tells us what happened to him."

Hoffman sneered, though, in the near-darkness, it went unnoticed. It had been HIM who had captured Moore, yes, it had been HIM who had pulled the security camera off the wall after he had realized it had captured everything, and yes, it had been HIM who had alerted John to the four criminals in the first place- everything had been HIS doing.

But, he, Hoffman, had made a mistake. He had forgotten to dispose of the security tapes- but that did not matter now.

"He's dead," he said simply, staring at the sketch. It had been John who had drawn it, with a dangerously shaking hand. Amanda had had to hold his hand steady so the drawing turned out somewhat legible.

"The evidence does point that way," Perez agreed, folding the sketch up and placing it in her pocket. "Shall we press on?"

Erickson nodded. They all swept their flashlights over the room once more, momentarily illuminating the slashed, broken chairs, yet more ominous papers, and-

Strahm sucked in a deep breath. Along the floor of one particular doorway (the plaque nearby announced that it was the CREMATION ROOM) was a slack metal trip-wire. Strahm looked skywards. Positioned above the doorway were four shotguns. If the trip-wire was triggered, the guns would go off, blowing the victim's head to pieces.

"Hey..." Strahm began, but, to his dismay, saw that he was alone in the reception area. The party had moved off without him, down the hallway. Thankfully, it was not the one with the quadruple shotgun hanging over the doorway.

Sure that he could feel eyes on him, Strahm hurried after the party, looking skywards the whole time.

**XxX**

Thankfully, the morgue was empty, but the smell of death still lingered about, causing more than one person to wrinkle their noses in disgust. Even Hoffman had to admit that the smell was pretty fucking disgusting- and John had wanted his bed in here! Amanda and Hoffman had said no way- probably the only thing they had (and would ever) agree on. To further confuse the police, Amanda had pushed John's (vacant) bed in here, once he was well out of the way.

"Christ," Erickson muttered, shining his light on the battered hospital bed. A few SWAT men crowded around it, pointing out the tiny droplets of blood splattered over one side of the bed. "What happened here?" Erickson demanded. To his frustration, no-one was able to answer him- but had he really expected someone to?

The bed kept the group occupied longer than Hoffman had expected. Bored, he hung back from the group, watching as Strahm straggled in. Hoffman's mouth curled into a cruel smile, as Strahm clutched his gun tight to him, and he glanced up at the ceiling- he'd obviously seen the quadruple shotgun trap.

Finally, mercifully, the group moved away from the bed. Sing found a few cabinets, and offered to go through them, but Erickson, who was impatient to get this whole thing over with, shook his head no.

"Someone was here recently," Perez said suddenly. The group turned to look at her, Tapp and Strahm in particular.

"What makes you say that?" Tapp asked.

Perez gestured to the table beside the bed. "Look."

A cup of coffee was on the table. Tapp touched it lightly. It was still hot. "Jesus," he whispered.

Hoffman covered his grin with a gloved hand. It had been he who had left the coffee cup there- he had been drinking it when he was setting the traps up with Melanie. He'd forgotten to take it away. "Silly me," he muttered behind his hand. Angelina swatted his shoulder playfully.

"What?" Sing and Erickson asked in unison. Tapp gestured for them to touch the cup of coffee. They did so, their sceptical expressions becoming one of horror.

Erickson opened his mouth to say something, when-

"HELP ME!" A woman's voice shrieked from the darkness. Quite a few members of the group started, almost letting off their guns.

"HELP ME, PLEASE! _OH GOD, HELP ME! PLEASE! SOMEBODY HELP ME!" _

"A victim," Rigg whispered, and then he was gone, charging back the way he came, listening out for the voice.

The group wasted no time in rushing after Rigg, Perez and Erickson catching up to him, Strahm and Hoffman not too far behind-

Strahm stopped, staring up at the doorway, as his comrades rushed through, and the trip-wire began to slowly tighten.

Strahm was at a crossroads. If he went in after them, he risked killing himself. However, if he did not, he risked being accused of being an accomplice to Jigsaw, something he absolutely could NOT stand.

"Fuck this," he whispered, and then charged in after them.

The trip-wire tightened. It was now active.

**XxX**

The (recorded) cries of pain were coming from the end of the hallway. Rigg sprinted towards the voice, which was that of a young woman- Melanie, in fact- and he was ready to save her, ready to be the hero.

While the others were struggling to keep up Rigg, Strahm hung back, cautious. There would be more traps about, he knew. To his right, a motion-sensor clicked on, the little red light going unnoticed by most. Connected to the motion-sensor was a thin wire, trailing up the wall, attached to a crossbow-like device. Three arrows were inserted. If anyone were to activate the motion-sensor, they would receive an arrow to the throat.

Hoffman grinned, seemingly melting into the shadows. It was thing to hear how this trap worked in theory, but to see it in action- that was something he hardly dared to miss.

"FUCK!" Rigg screamed, and Hoffman's grin grew. Rigg had just discovered that the screams were coming from a recorder welded into the wall. It was playing a tape of Melanie's screams, when she had first awoken in the Iron Chair Trap, over and over. It was quite amusing, actually.

"A trap," Hoffman heard the Perez woman whisper, sounding shocked. "Jigsaw isn't here. He wanted to lure us here, to-"

There was a shrill beeping noise, and Strahm could only watch in horror, as another SWAT man triggered the motion-sensor, and the wire on the crossbow tightened, and, with a loud TWANG, an arrow was thrust out it, and it lodged itself in the unfortunate man's jugular. There was a loud squelching sound. The man's scream of pain quickly became a wet gurgle of agony. He fell to his knees, and his hands clamped reflexively over his own throat, and blood crept between his white fingers.

Suddenly, everyone began to panic. They began to scream, and Rigg and Erickson barked orders, trying to restore calm, but, of course, before they could, another unfortunate activated the crossbow trap, by kneeling down to try and help the first fallen man. Another arrow was propelled from the crossbow, and it went straight through the man's left eyes. He let out a strangled scream, his hands flying up to his face, where the white goo of his eye dribbled down his face, which was contorted in agony.

Perez made a gagging noise, as she struggled to keep herself from bringing up her breakfast. Strahm had to mentally restrain himself from rushing over to her and clamping his arms around her. He couldn't afford to do that anyway, because there was still one arrow left in the crossbow, and if he ran across to Perez, he might get shot with the last remaining arrow. How stupid that would be!

The man closest to Strahm gagged, as the first man (who had been shot in the neck) fell forward, dead. The one who had gotten shot in the eye had begun to spasm uncontrollably. The man moaned again, and suddenly, he wasn't next t Strahm anymore. He was lying on the ground, a loud gargling noise coming from the back of his throat. He had been shot between the eyes- the arrow had gone straight through his head- bones and bits of brain clung to the arrow-shaft.

That man was perhaps luckier than the other two- he had died almost instantly.

There was complete silence, as everyone realized that the crossbow was now empty. Most people, Strahm included, did not know whether to scream or vomit. Some did neither; others did both. However, Strahm was one of the few who did neither. Now certain that he couldn't be shot down by the crossbow, he crept over to the tape recording. Erickson was standing by it. "Get away," he grunted, pointing his weapon at Strahm, who ignored him. He tried to pry the machine off the wall. No luck. He growled in frustration, and instead began to caress the wall with his fingertips, trying to find a hidden doorway or something. "What are you doing?" Erickson demanded.

Again, Strahm ignored him. He'd found a doorway, underneath the wallpaper, and he began to claw at it. At this total disregard to orders, Erickson lost it. "What are you DOING? _ANSWER ME!" _

Strahm looked up. "I found a door," he panted, and again, there was that odd feeling of recognition for Perez. She studied the sweaty, panicked man before her, and she saw that he and Peter Strahm were not so different- except that Peter had been looking a LOT worse for wear than this young, handsome man did.

"So?" Rigg demanded, sounding a lot younger than he really was all of a sudden.

"It's the only way out," Strahm croaked. He snatched at the wallpaper some more, tearing chunks of it away. "Damn it, HELP ME!"

"What is he talking about?" Erickson asked Rigg quietly. "Why can't we just go back the way we-"

Strahm squeezed his eyes shut, as the four shotguns roared, and there was aloud splattering noise, as whoever was stupid enough to try to go back the way they had come had their head explode under the force of four separate metal slugs. Someone screamed in anger and frustration, and then someone really DID vomit- the smell filled Strahm's nostrils, and he fought to keep the contents of his own stomach inside him, and not on the ground. Vomiting would not help him at the moment- it would only add to his stress.

"It's a trap," Perez whispered. It had not been her who had vomited- it had been one of the SWAT men. "We can't go back, and we can't go forward."

"That's where you're wrong," Strahm interrupted, avoiding meeting her eyes, "We CAN go forward. The door." He gestured to the partially torn-apart wall, where a section of a door could be seen.

"How can we trust you?" Rigg demanded, grabbing Strahm by his collar and pulling him so that they were nose-to-nose. "For all we know, you could have set up this trap!"

"I didn't!" Strahm insisted, pulling out of Rigg's hold. "We've gotta move. That crossbow is connected to those jars." He pointed to the corner, where a bundle of jars sat, glittering ominously.

"What about those jars?" Rigg snarled. "They're just jars."

"They're nail bombs," Strahm said matter-of-factly, unable to mask his patronising manner. "Homemade, probably C-4."

"How the-how the FUCK DO YOU KNOW THAT?" Tapp roared, jerking Strahm to his feet and shaking him as though he were a rag doll. Strahm looked helplessly to Erickson and Perez, hoping against hope that they would recognize him, but there was no friendly smile on their face- only coldness. They thought he was an accomplice to Jigsaw. They thought he was a murderer. They were going to kill him. They were going to-

"Peter?" Perez's voice, though no louder than a whisper, drew everybody's attention. She crept forward, and when he was in full view, and she could see his gray-blue eyes, she gasped. "Oh, _shit," _she murmured, her eyes widening. "It _is _you!" She made as though to sweep him into her arms, but then thought better of it.

While still in Tapp's iron grip, Strahm nodded as best he could. "Lindsey," he said, his voice full of an inner emotion he had never felt before- he had no idea what it was, but he liked it. He turned to Tapp. "Let me go," he ordered. Tapp, bewildered, did so, and Strahm moved back towards the door.

To his surprise, Perez joined him in tearing the wall away. He looked at her in surprise, and she shrugged, smiling at him. "Even though you're not meant to be here, I'm glad you are," she whispered, low enough that only he could hear.

He smiled at her briefly, before a blood-curdling scream sounded. They turned, to see a frantic SWAT member gesturing to the nail bombs. "We have thirty fucking seconds!" He bawled. Strahm and Perez needed no more encouragement. The two of them tore away at the wall, and finally, the door was revealed.

Strahm pulled on the door, and it swung open. "GO, GO, GO!" Erickson screamed, and they streamed into the door, and Strahm was thrust against the wall, and they had ten seconds left, and now he was the last one left, and he hurled himself through the door, and he pulled it shut, just as-

The nail bombs went off. The smoke crept under the door, and it caused everyone to cough heavily, their eyes tearing up from the disgusting smoke. "Jesus..." Erickson said, once the smoke had cleared, and he had gotten a clear look at Strahm's face. "It IS you, Peter!"

"Yeah."

"What the HELL are you doing here?" Erickson demanded. "You KNOW you're off the case."

Strahm had just opened his mouth to snap a reply when he saw the coffin. It was a dull bronze, quite opposed to the usual pine, and it was lying horizontally on the ground. There was no mistaking whose coffin it was. Tacked to the coffin was a piece of paper with the same sketch as before- Raymond Moore's sketch of his 'game'. "Jesus..." Rigg muttered, moving forward.

"Don't," Strahm shouted, grabbing the back of Rigg's bulletproof vest. He pointed. "Look." Above the coffin, hanging by fraying string, was a cassette player. There was a tape inside it.

"So?" Rigg snarled. "It's a tape-big deal. I don't care about that. What I DO care about is that that's a fucking TRAP right there!" He pointed at the coffin. An awful smell eradicated from it- the smell of burnt meat. Without another word, Rigg rushed forward and opened the top of the coffin- a trapdoor. He peered inside, and then looked away quickly, his face twisting with disgust. "Oh..." He made a retching noise.

"What is it?" Perez asked, rushing forward to meet Rigg. She, too, looked inside the coffin, and she fell to her knees, bringing up her food at last. Curiosity getting the better of him, he also looked in the coffin. Inside was the charred body of Raymond Moore. Dried blood was smattered on the walls. A foot lay on the bottom of the coffin, away from the rest of the corpse. Strahm groaned, and then quickly looked away, snatching at the cassette player hanging above the coffin. He pressed 'play', and the Jigsaw puppet's menacing laugh filled the room.

"Jesus CHRIST!" Tapp shrieked, yanking the player away from Strahm, who stared at it in dumbfounded horror, and Tapp proceeded to stomp on the player, until the puppet's laugh finally died away.

"Look," Perez said, pointing at the corner of the room. One of the remaining SWAT members gave a humourless little laugh.

"Great! MORE bombs," he said. Strahm followed his gaze, and sure enough, there they were, another cluster of nail bombs.

Perez turned to Strahm desperately. "How do we get out of this one, Peter?" She, like the rest of the unit, had become entirely dependent on him. Unfortunately, he hadn't the faintest idea of how to escape this one.

He shrugged and glanced at the bombs. They had three minutes. "I don't know," he said helplessly. Perez stared at him for a moment, and then threw herself in his arms, sobbing hysterically. Bewildered, he stroked her hair a few times, scanning the room, looking for any sort of exit, ANY, but ultimately finding none. He sighed, frustrated.

Perez sobbed into Strahm's hard, muscled chest, feeling all of the fight wash out of her. He stroked her hair a few times, as though unsure of how to go about it, and she revelled at his touch, in his embrace.

She looked up, wiping away her tears, and she saw something. A bit of the wall seemed to be sunken in. "Peter," she whispered. He fixed his eyes on hers. She nodded towards the sunken patch of wall. "There's something there."

Cautiously, warily, she made her way over to it, Strahm not too far behind, and she prodded the wall. The wallpaper sunk right into the hole, tearing. She grinned. She'd found a way out. Happily, eagerly, she continued to tear, as those all around her said their goodbyes. Once the wallpaper was gone, her grin grew. She'd found a crawlspace.

Wasting no time, she heaved herself into the tunnel, not thinking about the high possibility that this was a trap. Strahm, seeing this, gallantly leapt in after her, and though he couldn't see a damned thing once he was in there, he was sure some of the others crawled in after him. All of them crawled a way before Perez stopped suddenly. "What's wrong?" Strahm asked, feeling around in the pitch-black for her, but coming up empty.

Perez groaned. "Nails," she said. "There are nails across the sides of the tunnel. I just scratched myself against them, that's all."

From then on, they were all very careful not to brush up against the nails, although Strahm unknowingly put his hand on top of a patch of them- they sunk deep into his right hand. He cursed and swore, and then there was a loud BANG, as the nails bombs went off, and the man in last cried out in pain, as nails penetrated his legs.

It was barbaric of them to do so, but they left him there- they simply couldn't turn around, not in the rigged tunnel of pain and blood.

They continued on, not able to see anything at all, and they often called out to each other, to reassure everyone that they were still alive, and they were OK.

Perez reached forward, ducking under another patch of nails (these ones were aimed at her neck) and she reached forward again, expecting to feel the cool metal that the tunnel was made of- but certainly not open air. Unable to go back, Perez dropped forward, out of the crawlspace tunnel, and she landed hard on her left side. She tasted blood, and she spat it out bitterly.

She blinked a few times, her eyes adjusting to the dim lighting- and she saw that the opening of the tunnel had a large, V-shaped blade positioned above it. "No," she whispered, but, no matter how hard she tugged at the blade, there was no getting past the fact that it was unmovable.

She had no choice but to move away, as Strahm fell out of the tunnel, and Erickson followed, and then Rigg, and then three more SWAT men. Tapp seemed to have disappeared. Sing had fallen victim to the quadruple shotgun trap.

As the final SWAT guy eased out of the tunnel, the blade shot down and severed the man's head from his body. The head fell to the ground with a soft thump. His twitching body jerked a few times, and then finally lay still. "Just like a guillotine," Erickson muttered. Nobody answered him- what was there to say?

**XxX**

As Hoffman stepped out from his hiding spot, he watched the law enforcers look around the final room on the monitor. He smiled. He'd modified Melanie's game just enough so that she could stay in the game a little longer.

**XxX**

"Holy shit," Perez whispered, pointing at the grotesque sight before them: a chair, made entirely of upwards-facing nails, with streaks of blood and gore, sat opposite them. She and Strahm stared at the contraption for a while longer, until a SWAT man's shout interrupted them:

"Hey, I found us a way out!" He cried excitedly, gesturing to the heavy iron door. Hanging by a thread was a tiny brass key. A tiny bit of folded paper was stuck to it. Gibbering excitedly, he grabbed the key, pulled the paper off of it, and read it aloud:

"_Do not attempt to use this key on the door to this room." _

He snorted. "Fuck that, I'm getting out of this shithole!" He placed the key inside the tiny keyhole in the iron door, and he turned it. On the other side, something clicked. "Hey, what's that?" He asked, peering through the tiny peephole.

"Hey, don't-"Strahm began, but too late. The pistol on the other side went off, sending a bullet into the man's eye, and coming out the other side, the back of his head opening up, leaving a huge, gaping hole. Blood blossomed, staining the man's uniform crimson.

The remaining SWAT guy screamed and bolted for Erickson, the man in highest authority here. "Don't let me die!" He begged him, his eyes wild. "Don't let me die out here, PLEASE..."

As Erickson tried his best to comfort the terrified man, Strahm saw that the SWAT had a radio. He marched over to the man and snatched it off of him. "Hello?" He barked into the radio. Random static on the other side. "Hello?"

Perez saw the cassette player on the chair, and she tore at it angrily. She fumbled with it, almost dropping it, when-

"HELLO?"

More static. Then-

"'Lo?"

Two figures crept out from the shadows, needles aloft. The twisted pig masks adorned their faces, obscuring their identities.

"Hello, this is Special Agent Strahm of Squadron A-"

The figures worked quickly, jabbing the needles into the necks of Erickson, the SWAT man, Rigg, and Perez, but not before she managed to press 'play' on the cassette player.

As the radio was snatched away from him, Strahm leapt away from the attacking figures and towards the tape. He HAD to know what it said- he HAD TO!

He crawled along the floor, trying not to attract the figure's attention- they appeared unable to find him at the moment. His fingertips touched the player. He brought it closer to his ear-

"_Hello, Agent Strahm. I truly appreciate what you've been trying to do for me, but rest assured- I no longer need saving. Someone else has saved from the path I was going down- the same path that liars, thieves, and murderers tread. I've found myself a saviour at last...Do you know what the cure for cancer is, Agent Strahm? How about the cure to death itself? The answer is...immortality. By creating a legacy, by living a life worth remembering, you become immortal. It is I who will eventually continue John's work after he dies, and, now that you know this, you cannot leave. The secret must die with you. Game over." _

Strahm managed a single scream of rage, before something hit him on the back of the head, and Peter Strahm knew no more.

**XxX**

When Peter Strahm next awoke, he was in a strange new world. A world of pale colours and people dressed in white. A world that, oddly enough, smelled like antiseptic.


	15. Emotion unleashed

**September 25****th****, 1997-Emotion Unleashed. **

"Well, well. Hello there."

Strahm turned his head, searching for the person who had spoken. His eyes slipped out of focus, and a new dull pain pulsed at the base of his skull.

"How are you feeling? Oh my, you DO look pale, but that's to be expected after everything you've been through, isn't it? Of _course_ it is." The voice belonged to a nurse who was approaching the bed from the direction of the open door. She was a plump, gray-haired woman with warm brown eyes and a wide smile. She wore a pair of black-rimmed glasses on a beaded chain around her neck; at the moment, they lay unused on her matronly bosom.

Strahm tried to speak. He couldn't.

Even the mere effort of straining for words made him so light-headed that he thought he might pass out. His extreme weakness scared him- a first for him.

The nurse reached the end of his bed and smiled reassuringly. "Agent Strahm, it's okay. You're perfectly okay now." She pushed a call button on the headboard of his bed.

Strahm tried to speak again, and this time he managed a sound, though it was nothing but a small, meaningless gurgle in the back of his throat. He wondered suddenly if he would ever speak again. Perhaps he would be condemned to making grunting animal noises for the rest of his life.

Whatever had happened to him, it involved his head, in which a drum seemed to be booming loudly and relentlessly. Maybe he had brain damage. Brain damage sometimes resulted in a loss of speech, didn't it? _Didn't it? _

The nurse must have seen the panic in Strahm's eyes, for she laid a hand on his shoulder. "Easy now. Easy, Agent Strahm. Everything's going to be okay." She bent over his right arm, and he saw, with horror, that he was being fed intravenously. Did that mean there was something wrong with him? What had HAPPENED to him?

The nurse checked his IV drip, and lifted his arm to check his pulse. Strahm waited patiently- though it wasn't like there was anything else he could do. Once the nurse had placed his arm back gently on the bed, Strahm tried to lift it. He managed to raise it a little, but he had insufficient strength to keep it raised; he dropped it back to the bed.

My God, he thought, if I can't speak or raise my arm, I probably can't WALK, either.

He tried to move his legs under the sheets. He didn't seem to have any feeling in them; they were more numb and leaden than his arms.

The nurse made as if to move away; desperate, Strahm clutched at her sleeve, trying to speak.

"Take your time, Special Agent," the nurse said gently. But Strahm knew he didn't have much time. The pounding in his head had increased, and he knew he was teetering on the edge of unconsciousness- a ring of steadily approaching darkness moved inward from the edges of his vision.

As he made deeper, more guttural noises, a doctor in a white lab coat entered the room, apparently in answer to the call button that the nurse had pushed. He was in his late forties, with pale blonde hair and even paler skin. An identity card pinned to his coat declared him as Dr. LAWRENCE GORDON.

Strahm gazed at Gordon as he approached the bed, and he tried again to speak, wanting to ask if his legs were paralysed. He never got that far. By then, the darkness had reduced his vision to a small spot, then a mere dot, and then a pinprick.

Peter Strahm fell into the almost blissful cover of darkness.

**XxX**

When Lindsey Perez woke, she thought she was blind. She opened her eyes and she could see only purple darkness, ominous and shapeless shadows stirring within other shadows. Before she could panic, that gloom faded away to a pale haze, and the haze resolved into a white, acoustic-tile ceiling.

She smelled fresh bed linen. Antiseptics. Disinfectants. Rubbing alcohol.

She turned her head, and pain flashed through the length of her forehead, as if an electric shock had snapped through her skull from temple to temple. Her eyes fell out of focus. When her vision cleared again, she saw that she was in a hospital room.

She could not remember being admitted to a hospital. She didn't know the name of it or what city it was located in.

_What's wrong with me? _

She raised one pathetically weak arm, put a hand to her brow, and discovered that there was a bandage over half of her forehead. What had happened to her?

She frowned, and that simple act alone sent a bolt of monstrous pain rushing through her. The walls of the room began to spin, and she clenched her eyes shut, not wanting to slip back into unconsciousness.

She reached out to the sides- to her frustration, she felt the smoothness of the side rails on both sides of her bed. She felt like a small child all over again.

With nothing else to do, she tried to remember what had happened. She remembered crawling through the tunnel of nails, and she remembered the SWAT soldier getting shot through the eye, but...she remembered nothing else.

Letting out a small sob, Perez stared up at the ceiling, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. Never had she felt so afraid- or alone.

**XxX**

When Strahm woke again, his headache was gone. His vision was perfect.

Night had fallen. He saw this with utter clarity. His room was softly lighted, but only featureless blackness lay beyond the circle of light his bedside lamp produced.

His IV drip had been taken away. His needle-marked, slightly discoloured arm looked pathetically thin against the white sheet.

He turned his head and saw the same doctor who had been in his room before. He was standing beside the bed, staring down at Strahm with his eerie blue eyes. They seemed to be probing Strahm, to try and see _into _him rather than _at _him, but those eyes reflected no trace of his own feelings; they were as flat as painted glass.

"What's...happened...to...me?" Strahm asked.

He could speak. His voice was faint, raspy, and rather difficult to understand, but at least he was not reduced to making guttural animal noises for the rest of his life. However, he was still weak, almost pathetically so. Even that meagre effort of forcing those few words from his throat seemed to physically drain him.

The doctor didn't answer him, but merely stared at Strahm, studying him. He clicked the pen he held in one hand a few times, before he finally answered the desperate FBI agent:

"You don't recall anything that happened?"

Strahm tried to remember. He opened his mouth to speak, but, upon finding that he couldn't manage the sentence he wanted, closed it and shook his head, feeling like a small child. The doctor seemed almost annoyed.

"You were raiding the funeral parlour where Jigsaw resided." Strahm nodded; this he knew. Gordon tried again: "You crawled through a tunnel lined with hundreds, possibly thousands, of rusty nails. Many of them punctured your skin."

This was also something that Strahm remembered. He remembered how much it had hurt when he had accidentally kneeled on top of a particularly nasty nail- it had gone deep into his kneecap, grinding against it, severing flesh and muscle easily, almost as if it were a blade.

"You exited the tunnel, and you entered a chamber of sorts. There, the toxic gas you had been breathing in took its toll on you. You became unsteady. You tripped, and you hit your head on the wall."

"...No."

Gordon looked surprised at being corrected. He looked up from his pen at last, and his eyes mirrored confusion perfectly- if Strahm wasn't a cop, he would almost have believed that Lawrence Gordon actually gave a shit about what he, Peter Strahm, thought. "I beg your pardon?"

Strahm tried to heave himself upwards, to try and assume a sitting position, to keep whatever dignity he had left. He couldn't. Instead, he settled for glaring at Lawrence Gordon. "That's...not what happened," he said clearly.

Gordon raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Strahm hadn't been inhaling any gases- he'd been attacked by two shadowy figures wearing black and red robes- he'd SEEN them attacking him, had heard the _swish _that their robes had made, had seen the vicious jabs of syringes-

"Someone...attacked me," Strahm said. "They...hit me in the head."

Gordon shook his head, smiling slightly as he did so. "No, Peter, no-one attacked you," he said. "When paramedics arrived at the scene, there was no-one else in the room but you and four other people."

Strahm was furious. Who did this high-and-mighty doctor think he was? Strahm was a member of the FBI, for Christ sake! He knew what he was talking about!

"Well, _obviously_, if it's Jigsaw we're talking about, he probably had a goddamn hidden-"

"-It's perfectly normal for patients who have inhaled toxic gases to be disorientated, Agent Strahm-"

"I'm not disorientated, DAMN IT!"

Gordon put a hand on Strahm's chest, restraining him from sitting up (something that he probably could not have done anyway). "What you need to do, Agent Strahm, is take a deep breath and relax. There's nothing to be afraid of here."

Strahm was too furious for words. He could not believe that this man, the man who was supposed to helping him recover from whatever had happened to him, was making a mockery out Peter Strahm of the FBI!

As Gordon stared at him, trying to access whether Strahm was going to yell out again, Strahm cast his thoughts to Perez. How was she doing? He remembered her being tackled from behind, and the sharp _crack _her head had made against the wall, as whoever was underneath that black and red robe injected her with something, something that would most definitely do something horrible to her-

"Lindsey." Strahm's voice was now ragged, desperate. Gordon turned those unfeeling eyes of his to him, questioning. "I need to see Lindsey."

"Lindsey?"

"My partner, Lindsey Perez-"

"Ah, I'm afraid Agent Perez is none of your concern, Agent Strahm."

Strahm's temper was rising. How did this man not understand how IMPORTANT it was for him to be able to see her? There were so many things he wanted to tell her- things that he simply HAD to say! "Look, Perez is important to me. I need to SEE her-"

"There's nothing to be stressed about, Agent Strahm. You're perfectly okay."

"I don't care about ME!" Strahm screamed, unable to keep his temper in check any longer. "I NEED TO SEE LINDSEY!" Desperate, he gripped Gordon's sleeve, using it to pull himself upwards. His frail body screamed in protest, but at this moment in time, he really did not give a shit.

Gordon flinched; the first REAL emotion Strahm had seen him display since they had met. He pulled his sleeve out of Strahm's grasp, and the special agent fell back with a thump. The sudden collision made his body scream yet more obscenities at him, but that didn't stop Strahm from trying to claw his way back upright.

Gordon glanced towards the hallway. "Orderly!" He cried. "I need assistance here!" He moved away from Strahm, and ignored his cries of frustration and concern for his working partner. His concern was so great that Lawrence Gordon had to wonder if Lindsey Perez was JUST his working partner- did they have something special? Certainly, Strahm's reaction hinted at that.

A man drifted in from the hallway. He was in his early to mid forties, with soft, fluffy brown hair and blue eyes that seemed to be the complete opposite of Lawrence Gordon's. They showed an obvious kindness, a kindness that Strahm liked in people. The orderly was dressed in plain white garments, and he was pushing a trolley laden with various objects. A badge pinned onto the orderly's shirt told Strahm that his name was ZEP HINDLE.

"You called, Doctor Gordon?" Zep said cheerily, bringing the trolley to a stop. He looked Strahm over, nodded to himself once, and then turned to Gordon.

"Yes," Gordon replied, sounding as though he would rather swallow razor blades than talk to Zep Hindle, "I was explaining what had happened to Agent Strahm, and he became violent."

"Violent?" Zep inquired, his kind eyes surveying Strahm curiously.

"Yes." Gordon sounded annoyed. "I think a sedative may be necessary."

Strahm glared at Gordon fiercely. "I'll claw your eyes out if you don't let me near her," he said boldly, not caring about whatever consequences there would be later- for there would BE consequences- it was inevitable.

"You see?" Gordon said. He took a step towards Strahm.

"Get away from me," he barked. Gordon ignored him and stepped closer, closing his hand around Strahm's wrist. Strahm twisted and gyrated, trying to free himself from the doctor's grip, but, damn it, he was no match for the doctor. With his weakened body, he suspected a small child may have been able to beat him in combat.

"Zep," Gordon said, now physically struggling to keep Strahm held down. He was literally panting with the effort of keeping the FBI agent still. _"Zep!" _

The orderly rushed over, a large needle in hand. Seeing Strahm's eyes widen in horror, Zep looked apologetic, his bright blue showing hints of regret, as he readied the needle, positioned it so it would penetrate the desired area quickly and effectively. "Just calm down, Special Agent," the orderly murmured, pressing the tip of the needle against Strahm's forearm. Strahm screamed; quickly, suddenly, he grabbed the needle and hurled it away. Gordon cursed, and he reached for the needle, temporarily giving Strahm a chance to escape. The FBI agent lunged for the side of the bed, trying to throw himself over the edge, not caring about the potential injuries he could give himself, but, as his arm slid over the edge of the mattress, Gordon seized his wrist in a vicelike grip.

Cursing, panting, the pale, uncaring doctor tightened his hold on Strahm. He was stronger than he looked; however, if Strahm had been in better physical health, he felt that he could have easily fought Gordon and Zep off.

"Don't struggle," Gordon snapped.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, Agent Strahm," Zep added unhelpfully (more than likely, he was only saying it to appease Lawrence Gordon, who had been glaring daggers at the orderly since he had arrived in the room).

Strahm fought back, but the only success he managed was to tire himself out more. Gordon forced him back against the mattress. Strahm slid down on the bed until he was stretched out flat, helpless.

Zep pinned his arms to his sides. Gordon held another needle up, poised to prick Strahm's skin.

Strahm thrashed and cried out for help. "Hold him still," Gordon ordered.

"It's not easy," Zep replied. "Gosh, Agent Strahm sure does have a lot of fire in him."

What he said was true. Strahm was surprised he could fight this much at all; panic had brought a fresh wave of strength with it.

"Well, at least the way he's straining, I can see the vein. It's popped up real nice," Gordon said, and Strahm could have SWORN that the pale doctor was leering at him, yes, actually LEERING at him.

Strahm screamed again.

Gordon quickly swabbed his arm with a cotton pad. It was wet and cold. Strahm smelled alcohol and screamed again.

"Agent Strahm, if you're not perfectly still, I might accidentally break off the needle in your arm. You don't want that to happen, do you?"

Strahm refused to go peacefully. Never, in his twenty-or-so years working with the FBI had he EVER gone peacefully. He had fought like tooth and nail, and he had ALWAYS won. To go peacefully now would be disgracing his job, Perez, and himself. Peter Strahm had always thrived on the fact that he refused to give, to keep fighting until the bitter end.

And he would NOT give up now.

Snarling like an angry dog, he writhed and twisted and tried to snake his way out of Zep's and Gordon's unyielding holds.

Then an unfamiliar voice said, "What's going on here? What are you doing to him?"

Gordon drew the needle back, just as it was about to pierce Strahm's skin. Zep's grip loosened, as he turned to see who had spoken. Strahm craned his neck to see who had entered the room.

A young, blonde-haired nurse stood at the foot of Strahm's bed, looking puzzled.

"Hysteria," Gordon said shortly. "He was violent."

"Violent?" The nurse inquired, sounding as if she didn't believe it. She looked at Strahm, who was now lying passively on the bed. "Agent Strahm, whatever's the matter?"

Strahm looked up at Zep, and the orderly smiled at him gently, obviously relieved that he hadn't had to restrain Strahm any longer. Strahm looked back at the nurse, and in a calm (but croaky) voice, said, "I need to know what happened to Lindsey Perez. My working partner. They..." He cast an apologetic look to Zep, who shrugged, giving Strahm a lopsided, carefree smile. "...won't tell me."

The nurse sighed and moved closer to Strahm, subtly pushing Gordon away- something that Strahm was endlessly grateful for. He did NOT like that doctor, and he supposed that Gordon did not like him either. Certainly, he acted as if he liked no-one, like he was somehow superior to everyone else.

"Special Agent Lindsey Perez?" The nurse inquired. Strahm nodded. "Why, she's in the room next you." She shot a dark look at Gordon. "I don't suppose there'd be any harm in you seeing her for a few minutes."

Strahm's heart leapt. "Really?" He asked, not daring to believe it.

The nurse smiled. "Really."

"Joyce, I really don't think-" Gordon began, but Joyce cut him off.

"Only for a few minutes, Doctor Gordon. He'll be in a wheelchair, and he has insufficient strength to wheel himself, so there's really nothing to worry about. I'll assign an orderly to him as well."

"I'd be more than happy to wheel Agent Strahm there," Zep offered. Joyce smiled.

"Great! Now, Zep, you're to wheel Agent Strahm there, let him talk for a few minutes, and then wheel him straight back. Okay?" Zep nodded. Joyce's smile grew, and she turned to exit the room, only to find Gordon there, glaring daggers at her. "Excuse me, Doctor Gordon."

Gordon didn't move. Joyce's smile faded, and returned his glare fiercely. The two medical practitioners stared at each other for a few moments, when Gordon's beeper went off. Sighing, Gordon turned it off. Joyce's smile returned. "Looks like you ought to be somewhere, Doctor," she said, brushing past him. Gordon let out another sigh and then left the room as well.

"Huh," Strahm said. It wasn't really a question, but a mere statement- a statement that meant a hell of a lot more than what it sounded.

Zep grinned embarrassedly. "Yup, Doctor Gordon doesn't get on with most people here." He and Strahm shared a sarcastic _Oh, REALLY, I had NO IDEA _sort of glance. Zep moved away from the bed, and, seeing Strahm's surprised expression, called over his shoulder, "Oh, I'm just getting your wheelchair. Don't move, Agent Strahm," he added teasingly. Strahm laughed humourlessly. Zep fumbled through a cupboard on the other side of the room, and produced a fold-out wheelchair. "You're going to like being pushed around," he said conversationally, propping it up quickly and efficiently- he had obviously had a lot of practice.

"Why do I need a wheelchair?" Strahm asked, not rudely. Upon seeing Zep's confused expression, Strahm continued on. "Well, it's just, I got hit in the head. What does that have to do with my legs?"

"They didn't tell you?" Zep asked, suddenly sombre. Strahm shook his head. Zep sighed. "Well, I'm not legalised to tell you. I'm sorry for throwing you to the dogs like this, but if you REALLY want to know, you'll have to ask Doctor Gordon."

Strahm laughed again. "He doesn't like me very much."

"He doesn't like _anyone _very much." Zep wheeled the wheelchair over to Strahm. "Can you lower yourself down, Agent Strahm, or would you like some help?"

"Help, thanks," Strahm said. It was hard enough to keep himself upright- if he tried to lower himself into a wheelchair, well, he wasn't sure what would happen, but it COULDN'T be good.

"Okay." Zep's hands were gentle, as he grasped Strahm around the waist and lowered him softly into the wheelchair. Zep was surprisingly strong- his slender frame was obviously more than it appeared. As Strahm's legs bumped against the wheelchair, he couldn't help but let out a gasp of pain.

Zep was there instantly. "Are you okay, Agent Strahm?"

Strahm felt like a child- it had been a long time since he had been coddled like this. "Yes. I'm okay."

"Okay. Time to see Agent Perez now."

As Zep began to wheel the FBI agent out of the room, Strahm could not help but enjoy the delicious bite of anticipation gnawing at his gut, as he was about to see Perez.

**XxX**

There was a knock at Perez's door, and, although it was a small, minuscule sound, it jerked the FBI agent out of the bizarre half-sleep state she had been in- to her, the knock sounded like cannon-fire.

She tried to lift herself up, but couldn't muster the strength to. "Yes?"

Her voice was weak, almost pathetically so, but at least she could talk. She had spent majority of her waking hours here worrying that she might never speak again.

"Agent Perez." It was a middle-aged male, dressed in orderly whites. He poked his head in her room, smiling kindly. "You have a visitor."

"Who is it?"

The orderly grinned. "Well, see for yourself." He ducked behind and the door, and, after a moment, re-entered, wheeling a man in a wheelchair. Perez stared.

Though he was thin, slightly discoloured, and ill-looking, she recognized the man straight away. It was Peter Strahm!

**XxX**

Now that the funeral parlour had been overrun by the police, Hoffman and Melanie had taken refuge in the new lair- a dark, hostile building in the middle of the city. Once they had arrived, Melanie had rushed straight to her 'room'- a place where Amanda had callously dumped Melanie's possessions, and she had said that she wanted to be alone.

Hoffman, who was curious as to what could be the matter, had followed her.

Melanie sat hunched over something Hoffman couldn't quite see. He was sure she knew that he was trying to sneak a peek- hence her hunched posture- but he longed to know what had ensnared her attention and managed to lock her in its vice-grip, so that she was almost totally unaware of anything else.

Judging from the way her shoulders were slumped, it was definitely not something good. Hoffman ducked back behind the corner, from which he had been watching Melanie for a few minutes. He frowned. Was Melanie upset that the FBI agents had escaped from the funeral parlour?

She shouldn't be. This gave them all- Hoffman, Amanda, Melanie and John, that was- a chance to create more traps, to test their will to survive.

"Go away."

The sound of her voice interrupted Hoffman's train of thought. He started, and poked his around the corner. As he did so, he plastered an expression of bewilderment on his face. Melanie stared back at him viciously. "You don't need to put on a show, _detective," _she spat. "I know you've been hanging around for at least ten minutes, watching me." Had it really been that long? Hoffman didn't think so.

He was a good actor, Melanie thought, as she studied the face of the man who had been staring at her. Yes, he most certainly was- however, there was something about him that didn't fool Melanie. His eyes- they remained cold. Whenever Hoffman smiled, it NEVER reached his eyes. His eyes, although they were a brilliant shade of blue, made Melanie think of dark tunnels.

Even now, as she stared at him, his eyes remained cold- a dead giveaway that he was acting. Most people might be fooled by his acts, but she wasn't, no, not Melanie.

"What do you want from me?" Melanie demanded, deliberately standing in front of the scrap of paper on the desk, because she knew that was what Hoffman wanted to see.

The huge detective shrugged. "Well, get out," Melanie snapped, waving a pistol at him. It was small, and silver, and Hoffman had no doubt that he could reach his own handgun and shoot Melanie before she had time to squeeze the trigger.

He remained where he was, smirking slightly. "Didn't you hear me?" Melanie yelled, exasperated. "I said to GET OUT!"

After a brief, searching look, Hoffman left. Angelina, who was little more than an outline of her former self, accompanied him, muttering obscenities at Melanie. When they were out of earshot, Hoffman stopped his sister. "Don't," he warned her, gripping her shoulder tightly.

"Don't _what?" _Angelina snapped. Hoffman sighed.

"Don't...don't insult Melanie. It's...a very trying time for her at the moment."

Angelina threw her hands up in the air. "Sometimes I don't get you, mark," she said. "Sometimes I don't you at all."

Hoffman sighed. "Sometimes I don't get me, either."

**XxX**

"Peter," Perez said, her voice cracking. Tears ran freely down her cheeks now. She simply could NOT believe that he was here, the man she had fallen in love with.

Oh, she HAD fallen in love with him; of that there was no question. Since she had woken up in the hospital, there had been nothing to do but think. And she had thought quite a lot. She had thought about her feelings for Peter Strahm, and how _complete _she had felt when he had been stroking her hair, back in the funeral parlour, and she knew that you didn't feel that way for just anybody- only those you loved.

Strahm smiled at her- the effect should have disturbed her, for he looked so ill, but it did not. In fact, her heart seemed to flutter at the sight. "Lindsey," he murmured, his voice heavy with suppressed emotion. What emotion was there? Worry? Grief?

The orderly wheeled him closer, and, unexpectedly, Strahm took Perez's hand in his own, squeezing it slightly. The orderly stepped back and ducked out of the room. He left the door slightly ajar, so if anything of importance were to happen, he could dash in and assist them if needed.

The two FBI agents sat silently. Strahm's attention was fixed on her hand, which looked somewhat discoloured against the white sheet.

Birds chirped outside. Cars rumbled, and buses roared. Though it was dark, the air was not chilly; it felt refreshingly warm on Perez's cheeks. She focused her attention on her breathing, and she breathed in time with Strahm, almost as if they were a single organism.

"What happened to us?" Perez asked at last.

Strahm raised his eyes to hers, and she felt another excited thrill rush through her. "I'm not sure, exactly," he replied quietly. "I remember crawling through that goddamned tunnel, and that SWAT guy getting shot through the head, but..."

"I can't remember anything, either," Perez mused. "Whoever got us, they did their job well."

"They certainly did," Strahm agreed, now massaging her hand gently. It felt good.

They fell silent again, each preoccupied with their own thoughts.

"Peter..." Perez started. Strahm looked up, curious. "Even though you weren't supposed to be there, on the raid, if you hadn't been, we all would have died."

Strahm laughed humourlessly. "Lindsey, you're giving me too much credit. You're smart, Erickson's smart. They would have found a way out."

"They wouldn't have," Perez argued. "It wasn't Daniel Erickson or Lindsey Perez who escaped from Jigsaw's booby-trapped lair. It was _you, _Peter."

"Nice to know I was needed for once."

"Oh, you're definitely needed," Perez assured him. "I need you. I _do _need you." She heard her voice change abruptly as she was speaking, heard her voice change to mimic the intense heat of her true feelings for him. "There's no doubt about _that." _

She was as startled by her own boldness as Strahm appeared to be, but now she was on a roll, she couldn't stop herself. She could only plunge ahead recklessly, speaking too quickly, in too much of a rush to express what had been on her mind and in her heart for the past day or two. "I need you, Peter Strahm. If you don't believe me, I'll lie here all day, saying it over and over again, until my voice gives out."

He stared at her, his gray-blue eyes darker and more intense than she had ever seen them.

Perez tried to read those eyes, but she couldn't tell a thing about the thoughts behind them.

As she waited for him to respond to her, Perez wondered if she had done something stupid. Had she been better off keeping her feeling sealed up inside of her? Had his expressions of anger and worry been only for his WOKRING partner? Did he only see her as a working partner- and nothing more?

If he did, then the next few minutes were going to be among the most socially awkward in her life.

She wished with all her heart that she could call back the words she had spoke, roll the clock back just one minute.

Then Strahm kissed her.

**XxX**

Melanie sat back down at her desk, peering at the scrap of paper which sent a dagger to her heart:

A photograph of Kael's body, laying in a puddle of blood and flesh- his OWN flesh. The same flesh that had once been pressed up against her own flesh, the same flesh that coveted his hard, lean muscles. The very same muscles that had strained when he had made love to her.

And now, he was dead.

A single tear escaped from Melanie, and it slid down her face, until it splattered upon the photograph. She let out a small sob, and she hunched over the picture once more.


	16. The sobering facts of life

**September 25****th****, 1997- The sobering facts of life. **

Strahm kissed her full upon the lips, tenderly yet forcefully, both giving and taking, seeking and yet demanding. She responded to him with a heat that was most unlike her- in her other relationships, she had been sweet, gentle- but there seemed to be no need with Strahm. She kissed him eagerly, almost angrily, and he didn't seem to mind.

Also unlike any of her previous relationships, she had been the one in control, constantly working to please whoever she was with at the time, but this, she knew, was wildly different- she was being swept away as well.

The kiss not only involved lips and teeth and tongues, but hunger, passion- NEED. He put his hands on either side of her face, holding her firmly but gently, as if afraid she might suddenly declare that she no longer wanted him- as if he could not bear the thought of her doing so.

When the kiss ended at last, and they pulled back a few inches to stare at each other, to decide how the kiss had changed them, Perez saw a mixture of emotions in Strahm's face: happiness, surprise, awe, and confusion.

His breathing was fast.

Hers was faster.

For a moment, she saw something else in Strahm's eyes...something darker. For only a second or two, she thought she saw fear in his eyes, just a mere flicker of it, a fluttering bat-wing of apprehension.

Before Perez could decide what that might mean, before she could actually be sure that there HAD been fear in his eyes, the silence, and the spell along with it, were broken.

"You...You surprised me," Strahm said. "I didn't-"

"-Think I liked you very much?"

"Well...yeah. I mean, I haven't been-"

"-Its okay, Peter." She said, smiling at him. She kissed him again, but very briefly, as the door of their room was beginning to creak open.

Perez leant back on her pillows, as Zep edged into the room. He smiled at the two FBI agents. "I'm really sorry to bother you, Agent Perez and Agent Strahm, but I've been instructed to bring Agent Strahm back to his room now."

"That's okay," Perez said, a bit breathlessly. "Thank you for letting him visit, Mr. Hindle."

Zep chuckled. "Not a problem, Agent Perez." He slipped his hands around the wheelchair handles. He pulled the wheelchair backwards, turning it around so Strahm was facing the right way. As Zep did so, one of Strahm's legs brushed against the cold, cruel bed frame, and Strahm could not help the sharp exhale of pain that escaped from between his teeth.

Perez craned her neck as far as she dared. "Peter?" She asked, wincing with pain, as she tried to prop herself up on her elbows, "Are you okay?"

"I'm good, Lindsey," Strahm panted- he was suddenly exhausted. Perhaps the effort of heaving himself over to Perez's bed to kiss her had drained him of what little strength he had left- the struggle with Dr. Gordon and Zep had more or less killed him. As the wheelchair slid towards the open door, he smiled at her. "See you later."

Perez returned the smile, but she saw, underneath that weak, shaky smile of Strahm's, there was pain- more than he was letting on. There was something wrong with his legs.

But what could have happened to them? She remembered very little of her time in the funeral parlour, but she did remember that none of the security traps had anything to do with a person's legs. How many traps had there been in there? Perez remembered the crossbow, the nail bombs, the nail-edged tunnel, and the booby-trapped doorway. Absolutely NONE of them had dealt with the legs of a person- so what could possibly be wrong with Peter, HER Peter?

Had something else happened, something Lindsey Perez simply did not remember?

If that was the case, then how did Strahm not remember? He was, after all, the one with injured legs.

But there had been other people in the room with them, hadn't there? Erickson had been there, as had Rigg, and the remaining SWAT soldier. Perhaps they would know. Perhaps they had the answer to what was wrong with her-

Perez frowned. She was not entirely sure what Erickson would say, when he heard about her and Strahm. She was not entirely sure that she and Strahm were a couple now, but they were damned close to it.

As the door of her room snapped shut, Lindsey Perez began to have an idea.

She was going to ask Erickson and Rigg what had happened to them, the next day. She would have done it right that instant, except that her body absolutely refused to cooperate. Kissing Strahm seemed to have robbed her of what minuscule strength she had- and now it was a battle to even keep her eyes open, let alone sit up and ask to see her comrades.

Lindsey Perez fell asleep with a slight smile on her face.

**XxX**

Amanda eased the door of the new lair open, being careful not to be seen. The new lair was in the middle of the city, and many people were out and about at this hour. She wore black and red robes, with the hood yanked up, to hide the fact that she was wearing the fearsome pig mask John always wore when he abducted his victims.

She carried nothing of significance- at least, not at first glance. In her pocket was a wad of paper, upon which she had carefully written the name of the local hospital, where Agents Strahm, Erickson and Perez were located, as well as the SWAT commander, and the final soldier left of that squadron.

She was not happy- in fact, she was disgusted. She was disgusted because that stupid Dwyer slut couldn't even kill all of those who pursued John and his apprentices- Hoffman and Amanda! She did not count Melanie as an apprentice, because, _technically, _she failed her test. Sure, those FBI agents were severely injured- they might be out of action for _months_- but that simply was NOT good enough.

As Amanda slipped inside the new lair, shutting the door behind her hurriedly, she thought of how clumsy the Dwyer woman was. She had had to ask for HELP from Hoffman to rig the previous lair with traps! If she, Amanda Young, had had such a task, she would have created all traps herself, and, of course, they would have all worked perfectly. There would have been no survivors- and, if by some miracle that they HAD been, Amanda would have finished them off herself.

She pulled the pig mask off and threw it to the floor- she would pick it up later. That wasn't particularly important at this moment in time- what WAS important was that she spoke to John regarding Melanie, while the whore was elsewhere. Amanda supposed the stupid bitch was crying her eyes out in her room- like a baby. Like a fucking baby.

"John?"

The whisper was not loud, yet it seemed to be loud enough to wake her mentor from his slumber. His eyelids fluttered, and he groaned, trying to sit up in his hospital bed- Amanda had to do it for him, for John Kramer hadn't the strength to do even that these days. The cancer was progressing steadily, and he knew that he had less than a year left- which meant that his work was more important now than it had been ever before.

"Amanda," he said, suppressing another coughing fit. His body shuddered ominously with the effort. When at last the shudders subsided, he fixed his watery eyes on her. "What is it?"

"She failed," Amanda said simply, watching John's reaction. To her dismay, he didn't appear even the slightest bit surprised. He opened his mouth to say something, when he began to cough and splutter like someone three times his age. Amanda put the aspirator to his mouth, wishing there was something she could do, ANYTHING, to ease his pain. That was one of the hardships being a vigilante- should you happen to fall ill, you had to deal with it yourself- there was no stopping at any hospitals. If Amanda even TRIED to get outside help (which she would never do- there was no way she would EVER abandon John that way), it was a one-way ticket to jail. Because of John's work, Amanda doubted if there would ever be the possibility of a parole for him- or his apprentices. The police counted his work, no, THEIR work as murder, nothing more.

Then again, Kael Simons had gotten his parole. Somehow, the sly little bastard had managed to escape. Sure, his 'parole' was short-lived, but that was because she, Amanda Young, had ensnared him for a game. She was more than willing to bet that if they had not interfered, Kael Simons would have gone unnoticed by the police and FBI for years- he was good at disguising himself.

"Amanda." John's voice cut the air like a whip. He did not sound aggravated- he was merely trying to wake her from the red haze she had fallen into, and although she knew he meant no harm by it, she flinched and squeezed the blade tucked into her belt reflexively. The gesture was not missed by John, who stared at the blade for a few moments, and then turned his watery eyes onto his young apprentice, who refused to return his gaze.

"Amanda."

Still, she refused to look up- possibly because of the shame of being caught doing what John hated. Blood oozed down her wrist, and tiny crimson droplets slowly arched towards the ground, where they splattered violently, leaving red smears.

"LOOK AT ME!" John suddenly roared, and Amanda let out a small shriek, the knife slipping from the belt as she did so. It clanged onto the ground, its beautiful silver only just visible underneath the crimson smears. "Look at me," John repeated, his voice softer- kinder. More than often, he had to shout to get Amanda's attention- and be sure that it was held, for she was beginning to wander, both from him, John Kramer, and from the initial oath she had taken- she had begun to kill people outright, rather than test the subject's will to survive. He would have to remedy that- and soon.

Trembling slightly, Amanda raised her eyes to John's. "Now," John began, suddenly businesslike despite the condition he was in, "Does the fact that five victims are still alive cause you to believe that Melanie failed her test?"

Amanda nodded. John chuckled darkly. "All of them are crippled in some way. They will not be a threat until they recover from their injuries."

"And then what?" Amanda demanded, rubbing her injured hand on her trouser leg.

John smiled. "Then it's time to play a game."

**XxX**

As Zep pushed Strahm to his bed, the FBI agent wondered once again what had happened to his legs. The end of the hospital gown went past Strahm's knees, so he could only see his ankles- which appeared fine. His legs weren't broken- otherwise Zep would not have been allowed to lift Strahm out of bed- such an act might very well interfere with the restructuring of the bones. Had they been slashed by the nails? That was probable. The nails had, after all, been quite sharp- and rusty. The rust could have easily gotten into Strahm's bloodstream...

No. He was pretty damn sure that wasn't what had happened- rust couldn't possibly make his legs feel as bad as they did now.

Then what? What had happened to him?

He had to ask Lawrence Gordon, Strahm noted dully, as he was lifted into his somewhat lumpy bed by Zep. Though the orderly was undoubtedly being as careful as he possibly could, Strahm's legs still seared angrily, as he was positioned on the bed appropriately.

"I can get you some painkillers, if you like," Zep offered.

"Please," Strahm croaked. His throat hurt all of a sudden- it was like having a throat full of cruel razor blades.

Zep left the room. Strahm noticed that the orderly had left his trolley behind- the trolley laden with numerous sharp objects. He sighed. The room was dark, save for the single bedside lamp, which gave out a tiny circle of light. Everything beyond that circle appeared dark and ominous.

Beyond the darkness was the only place Strahm could look, and it wasn't enough to distract him from the constant screaming of his legs, nor the tiny stabs of pain in his throat.

**XxX**

Zep Hindle strode down the hallway as fast as he dared. He strode past gossiping nurses, other anxious-looking orderlies, and stern, cold, doctors. He had to get a painkiller for the FBI agent, and he knew Lawrence Gordon wouldn't be happy about it.

He would have to deal with it. If he prevented Zep from getting the painkiller, he could be in a lot of trouble when the FBI agent recovered.

Zep was so deep in his own thoughts that he did not realize that Lawrence Gordon was right behind him.

**XxX**

He must not have waited for a long time, perhaps only a few minutes at the most, yet it seemed an eternity to Peter Strahm. The pain in his legs and throat had gotten quite bad by this point, and he felt as though his legs and throat were on fire.

He could not help the sigh of relief that escaped from him, when he saw Zep Hindle make his way back into the room, holding a silvery packet of tablets. To Strahm's surprise, Lawrence Gordon was not far behind the orderly, his cold blue eyes fixated on Strahm, who returned the stare easily enough. He had had a lot of practice staring down stubborn criminals, and he was pretty damned good at it.

"Here you go, Agent Strahm," Zep said cheerfully, offering Strahm the packet. Strahm stared at the packet for a moment, and then tried to reach for it.

Though it was but a few inches away, his muscles screamed obscenities at him, and absolutely refused to cooperate. Strahm gritted his teeth and continued to reach forward, sweat dripping down his forehead. It was quite pathetic, but it was an effort even to keep his arm raised, let alone reach forward and take two tablets.

Seeing this, Zep gently pushed Strahm back on the bed. "I can crush them for you," he offered softly. "And I can dissolve them in water. Do you think that will be easier for you, Agent Strahm?"

"God, _yes_," Strahm rasped.

Zep busied himself with crushing the tablets, and Gordon moved to take the orderly's place. His blue eyes stared down at Strahm. "The tablets you're taking," he began, his hands toying with the stethoscope around his neck, "Are going to irritate your stomach. You won't be able to eat solid foods."

"So I'm not going to able to eat at all?"

"No," Gordon said. "You'll be fed intravenously."

"_What?" _Strahm did not mean for it to sound so shrill, so childlike, but he couldn't help. He hated the idea of this corrupt doctor sticking ANYTHING in his arm- even an IV tube.

"Would you rather not have the painkillers?" Gordon asked coldly. "Because that can be arranged quite easily."

"No, no," Strahm said hastily. "I want the damn tablets. I just don't understand. How do painkillers irritate my stomach?"

Gordon sighed. When he next spoke, he spoke slowly, carefully- as if to a simpleton. "Given what's happened to you, Agent Strahm, it would be unwise to give you anything that may prolong the pain. The painkillers I am about to give you will irritate your stomach in such a way that if you were eat anything afterwards, you would immediately regurgitate it, thus aggravating your throat unnecessarily. You wouldn't want that, would you?"

Strahm shook his head. Zep drifted over, now holding a clear plastic cup with a hazy liquid inside- the crushed tablets, Strahm presumed. "Here you go, Agent Strahm," Zep said, holding the cup to Strahm's lips. "Drink it slowly," he warned Strahm, who nodded impatiently. He sipped the hazy liquid slowly enough not to choke on it, and he inwardly grimaced. The crushed tablets tasted like shit. He wondered if he should have taken them as they originally were- solid.

When at last the cup was empty, Gordon shooed Zep away. Strahm was sorry to see the orderly go. He was a pleasant man to talk to; Strahm preferred him over Lawrence Gordon any day.

The doctor stared at Strahm unblinkingly, and Strahm stared back. "What happened to me?" He finally asked.

Gordon blinked. "I already told you, Special Agent. You inhaled a toxic gas, and you fell and hit your head."

"It can't be that fucking SIMPLE!" Strahm snapped. Gordon flinched, his hand drifting to his pocket, where, Strahm knew, was at least one needle, full of a powerful sedative, ready to silence Strahm. Seeing this, the FBI agent stopped. He took a deep breath, choosing his next words carefully- he did not want to be sedated, and unable to find out what really happened. "What kind of toxic gas?" He finally asked, trying desperately to keep his temper under control.

Gordon sighed. Strahm's temper flared.

"Damn it, doctor, I NEED TO KNOW!" Strahm gestured to his legs wildly. "What happened to these, huh? What kind of fucking gas messes with your legs?"

Gordon looked towards the doorway, apparently searching for a nurse, or an orderly, but upon finding none, he sighed. "Agent Strahm, can you just relax for a moment, please?"

Strahm glared at the doctor somewhat childishly. "If I do that, will you tell me what happened?"

"Yes."

"The truth? Not some cock-and-bull doctor shit?"

"Yes."

Strahm glared at the doctor for another moment, and then sighed, dropping his gaze to hands- hands that were heavily scarred. He hadn't noticed it before, but that was to be expected- his attention had been otherwise claimed. Firstly by the struggle with the doctor and Zep, and then while he was kissing Perez. He must have gotten the scars from crawling through the nail-edged tunnel; it made sense.

"Despite what you may think of me, Agent Strahm, I haven't been lying to you. You really inhaled a gas when you were in the funeral parlour. I'm afraid I neglected to tell you what KIND of gas it was. Before you get angry at me, please understand that while you were hysterical, if would not have done any good to tell you the truth. It may have worsened your condition."

"I'm fine now," Strahm said shortly.

"Yes. That's true." Gordon sighed. "Agent Strahm, you asked me what happened to your legs. The thing is-" he shifted uncomfortably, "-The gas you inhaled did not affect your brain in the slightest. The gas you inhaled attacked your throat, primarily, but it did get to your legs. I understand you were masquerading as a SWAT soldier during the raid, and, while most of your uniform was impeccable, your trouser legs were not long enough to prevent the gas from sliding through the gap between the material of your trousers and your leg. It viciously attacked the skin there, leaving huge, seeping blisters in it's' wake. Your legs eventually collapsed beneath you, and you hit your head on the wall."

Strahm felt sick. "What kind of gas was it?"

Gordon paused. "Mustard gas."

Strahm felt so ill that he actually rolled over to one side and made gagging sounds. He dry-heaved, but, to his relief, nothing came out of his mouth. He had nothing in his stomach to bring up. After he had finished gagging, Gordon helped him get back to his original position.

"My God," Strahm gasped, his throat searing angrily. He ignored it. "We were all supposed to die. We weren't meant to survive that place. Fuck, it was a giant Jigsaw trap!" Despite himself, Strahm began to cry, his shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. Tears did not make themselves known; it had been a long time since Peter Strahm had REALLY cried, but this was damned close to it. He was crying because of the harsh reality of just how close to death he and his comrades had been. He was crying because he was damned grateful he had gotten through to the other squadron on the radio. He was crying because his whole body hurt, hurt so much.

He was crying because he knew he may never walk again.

**XxX**

Melanie stared at the photographs of her dead lover. She was not crying- she no longer felt as if she could cry. She felt hollow- empty.

She scanned the numerous photographs studiously; taking in the horrible, gruesome details- the puddle of blood, with lumps of yellow flesh in it, the metal collar around his neck- they had been looked over so many times that they no longer conjured the horrible pang of devastation and loss that she had felt previously- she might have been looking at the corpse of a complete stranger, for all the reaction the picture invoked of her now.

There was something about the picture that just didn't sit right with Melanie. It frustrated her greatly. "Fuck," she said, her voice unintentionally louder than what it should have been.

She stared around the bare room, emotion catching up to her at last. She balled her hands into fists and clenched her jaw tightly, as she remembered what John had said to her, just two days ago:

_He took her chin in his withered hands, and he looked her straight in the eye. They had a hypnotic power about them- Melanie found that she could not look away. His eyes were intense, intelligent- certainly not the eyes of a murderer. _

_They were the eyes of a healer._

"_You will ultimately give everything to me," John whispered, his voice hoarse from the coughing fit he'd had just minutes before. The two of them were alone, alone in a dark, forbidding room. He was sitting in the makeshift wheelchair, and even the way he sat in it radiated power. He was not slumped like someone with his condition should, but rather, he was sitting poker-straight, like a man twenty years younger. "Every cell in your body." _

_Melanie answered the unasked question. "Yes." Her voice was calm, steady- she was not the least bit afraid. _

_John shifted slightly in his chair. "There is no going back from this life, do you understand me?" _

"_Yes." _

_John released her from his hold and leaned back in his chair. "Then go." He handed her a file, which she took with steady hands. _

_She walked from the room, flipping through the file as she did so._

She just couldn't believe that the man who had recruited her as an apprentice had done this to her lover. She couldn't believe that she was now an apprentice to this monster.

But WAS he a monster? Melanie supposed that was the question to be probing at, rather than wallow in her own self-pity.

After all, she had SEEN John's handwriting- and it was nothing like the writing on the back of the photograph. Who was it, then?

Amanda? That was a possibility.

Hoffman? Somehow, she doubted that he had written that.

But she should assume nothing- to assume things was to make mistakes, this she knew. "Fuck," she said again, but this time, it was but a mere whisper, a whisper of suppressed anger.

Yes, she was angry. She was angry at whoever had sent her those damned photographs of her Kael. Whoever had done it was going to pay. Melanie would make sure of that.


	17. Journey of discovery

**September 26****th****, 1997- Journey of discovery.**

It was raining, and Perez, though the rain never touched her, felt as if the rain were somehow sluicing away her very substance.

Perhaps it was childish, but she felt somehow hollow without Strahm- as if the two of them had merged together, and they were but a single organism. She wanted to find him, kiss him, touch him, _love _him, but...

She had work to do. She had to find out what had happened to Erickson and Rigg. It was vital that she did; otherwise, that left a huge piece of the puzzle unsolved, and since she was a member of the FBI, that was intolerable.

Yes, she knew she was confined to her bed for God knows how long, but it gave her something to think about while she was in the hospital. And, once she was out of the place, she could return to work, tell the others what she knew, and hopefully lock Jigsaw away for ever. After that...

She smiled, even letting out a childish giggle in her excitement.

There was a light knock on the door. A nurse eased the door open, saw that Perez was awake, and smiled at her. "Morning, kiddo."

"Morning," Perez replied pleasantly. She sat up with some effort, and a little pain. "What's for breakfast?"

It was perhaps a childish question to ask, but Perez was hungry, and she did not care how needy or childish she appeared. The nurse grinned. "Oh, you'll like this, kiddo," she said, opening the door farther, revealing a trolley laden with trays upon trays of food. The nurse pushed the trolley into the room and winked at Perez. 'Kiddo' was her nickname for Perez, simply because the nurse was at least twice her age. "Unbuttered toast and lime jelly."

Perez eyed the portions of her meal and she frowned. "That's not very much," she complained.

"Trust me, kiddo, you're not going to be able to finish this," the nurse replied, handing Perez a tray with two pieces of plain toast, accompanied by a minuscule amount of green jelly. "After your ordeal, you're not going to be able to eat large amounts of food for quite a while."

Perez sighed but didn't press on. She obediently took a piece of toast and began to chew it thoughtfully, enjoying the sunshine on her face. "Chew it slowly," the nurse warned. "You don't want to aggravate your throat, now."

Perez did so, chewing for at least a minute before she chanced a swallow. She did it quickly, quietly, but the act brought fresh pain, and she let out a loud gasp. Her hands flew to her throat.

No, she hadn't choked on the toast, but her throat was damned sore- not a dull ache, either, but a full-on sear of pain, fresh and brutal.

The nurse was over in an instant, holding a cup aloft. "Drink this," she ordered, holding the cup to Perez's lips. She didn't need to be told to sip slowly. She smiled a little, as the ice-cold water ran down her painful throat, extinguishing the fire that was there. It felt so good.

Once the cup was empty, she breathed a sigh of relief, and the nurse smiled. "Want some more, kiddo?"

"No, thank you," Perez said. The nurse nodded and placed the cup on Perez's tray. After a moment of thought, the nurse placed a small pitcher of water beside the empty cup.

"If you want more later," she explained. Perez nodded and picked up a plastic spoon, which she used to prod the green jelly with.

"Should I be okay eating this?" She asked, suddenly worried. She was worried because she knew she had to eat SOMETHING- she was so hungry- but she didn't know whether the jelly would aggravate her throat. The nurse nodded, and Perez dipped the spoon into the soft green mass. The nurse watched as Perez brought the spoon to her mouth, quickly swallowing the disgusting green goo.

Upon seeing that everything was all right, the nurse resumed control of her trolley and made for the door. She pushed the trolley through, and then turned back to Perez. "Holler if you need anything, kiddo."

"I will," Perez replied. "Thanks."

The nurse nodded and turned to leave.

"Wait!"

"What is it, kiddo?"

Perez struggled to form her question into words, words that made sense. "Could I...visit some other...people? Please?"

The nurse considered. "Well, it's not up to me, kiddo, but I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you," Perez said breathlessly.

As the door shut behind the elderly nurse, Perez began to wonder who she should visit first. Obviously, she wanted to see Strahm the most, but she thought that perhaps she should leave him until last- she wanted to get through her work first.

So who should she visit, then? Erickson? Rigg? The lone SWAT soldier?

She didn't know. She supposed she should wait until she got the all-clear for getting out of bed before she made such decisions. Still, it didn't hurt to plan these things out, did it? It meant that she was prepared. Ready. Weren't you supposed to be those things when you worked as a law enforcer?

The door creaked open, and Perez, lost in her own thoughts, jumped at the sudden noise. "Sorry if I disturbed you," a sheepish orderly with bright red hair apologized.

Perez relaxed. "Oh...that's okay." The orderly edged into the room, looking anywhere but at the FBI agent. He was young, no older than twenty-three, and he was nervous. What about, Perez wondered. What was there for an orderly to be nervous about?

"Um...Agent Perez, I've been allocated to take you to visit another patient, provided that they're awake," the orderly said quickly, mumbling into his chest. Ordinarily, Perez might have been slightly annoyed by this, but, now that she had gotten what she wanted, she merely waved it away.

"Oh! Great!" Perez said, overjoyed.

"I'll go get your wheelchair," the orderly said, rushing off to the cupboard opposite Perez. In a matter of seconds, he had the wheelchair propped up and ready.

Perez was confused. "Why do I need a wheelchair?"

The orderly paused. "Oh, um, because your legs aren't strong enough for you to walk on your own."

This was evidently supposed to help Perez, but it only succeeded to confuse her even more. However, she let it slide, as the orderly took her food tray away, placing on top of the bedside table, being careful not to knock anything over. He asked her to try and sit up more, and Perez did so, and the orderly slid his hands around Perez's waist and gently lifted her up. She was amazed at his strength- he was stronger than he looked. She supposed it was rude of her, but she had always thought that skinny, scrawny boys were weaker than those twice their height and twice their weight.

The orderly placed her into the wheelchair, being extremely careful. He made a point of not touching her legs, and she supposed it was because he had heard that Strahm's legs were injured. Perhaps he thought that Perez's legs were sore as well.

Either that or he simply didn't want to touch her legs.

Once he was sure that she was comfortable, the orderly pushed her away from the bed, moving at a brisk pace. "My name's Keith O'Hara, by the way," he said shyly.

Perez smiled at him, making him go red. "Lindsey Perez."

Keith pushed her into the hallway. "Who would you like to visit, Agent Perez?" He asked, glancing either side of him- the doors all had name plaques on them, and Perez, blushing lightly, saw Strahm's door. It was ajar, and she could see him, sitting up in bed, and he saw her as well, and he smiled at her. She smiled back, but she saw the grimace of pain hiding underneath that smile of his, and she knew that his legs were troubling him, and she wanted to go over to him and pull him to her, to comfort him, but she was anchored in the wheelchair, rendered agonisingly useless.

"Want to go see Agent Strahm?" Keith had followed her gaze, and seen the silent exchange between the two.

With some regret, Perez looked up at the orderly. "I'd love to, but..."

"But?" Keith questioned.

"I have to see Agent Erickson first," Perez amended. She cast one last, longing look at Strahm, HER Strahm, before Keith took hold of the wheelchair again, and then she was being taken away from her love, and she was being wheeled away to some new place.

Keith pushed her down the hallway, keeping to the left side, as patients roamed the corridors, more often alone than with accompanying nurses or orderlies.

On and on they went, until they reached the very end of the hallway. There was a single door here, and the plaque on it read ERICKSON. Keith tapped on the door twice smartly, and then ducked his head inside, checking to see if Erickson was awake. After a few moments, he redrew from the room and looked at Perez. "He's sleeping," he said apologetically.

Perez's heart seemed to sink considerably. "Oh," was all she could think of to say.

"Sorry, Agent Perez, but I can't wake him up, either. He's been sedated."

"What was wrong with him?"

"Oh, nothing," Keith assured her. "He's perfectly fine."

Perez said nothing, but she didn't believe Keith. There was something about his all-too-calm tone of voice that just didn't sit right with her. Somehow, he was TOO calm- it was eerie, and, despite the warm weather, Perez shivered. She had an idea that Erickson was NOT okay, and that the orderly was lying to her.

**XxX**

Melanie gritted her teeth, as she pored over the photographs once more, not looking at the actual PICTURES, but rather, at the backs of them, at the writing.

Whoever had written this, Melanie mused, had neat writing. Neat, meticulous- it was almost impossible to imagine a man writing such a disturbing message in such neat, curly script- such a style of writing surely belonged to a woman, perhaps an older one.

But who could have possibly have written it?

It COULDN'T have been John or Hoffman, so that left-

Amanda. Did she really hate Melanie that much, that she would torture her with photographs of her dead lover, with disturbing messages written on the back?

It seemed so.

Well then, Melanie thought, as she continued to pore over the photographs, I'll just have to make the stupid bitch play a little game. It won't be hard. All I have to do is incapacitate her, put her in a trap with no means of escape, and-

No. That would not do. John did not condone murder- neither should she. To commit murder was to wander from the path, the path that John had placed her on, to get her life back on track. Melanie knew that if she were to step away from that path, there would be no second chances. She would have failed John as an apprentice.

Besides, she had no PROOF that Amanda had even written the note. It could have been someone else completely.

A frustrated sigh escaped her, and she leant back in her chair, aggravated. Her short, spiky hair clung to her forehead, and she brushed it away impatiently.

As she did so, she became aware that someone was watching her. Wary, she turned her bright green eyes on the door, her hand drifting unconsciously to her pistol, which was lying beside the photographs.

"Hello?"

Her voice sounded strong, if slightly annoyed, but it was still strong nevertheless, and she marvelled once again at how the Iron Chair trap had changed her so quickly, so radically. If she had been put in this position before, when she was small- weak- she would have been afraid.

Not anymore. Melanie Dwyer was a new person.

The opened slowly, to reveal Hoffman on the other side. Melanie relaxed, her hand dropping to her lap, the other playing with her short hair. "Hoffman," she greeted him.

"Melanie," Hoffman replied. Melanie noticed that his eyes slid from her to a random spot in the room, and they stayed there for a moment, before shifting back to the other apprentice.

He took in the overturned photographs. "What are those?" He asked, very little curiosity in his voice.

Melanie's walls came up. "None of your business," she snapped, sweeping the photos into an open drawer. Once they were inside, she slammed the drawer harder than perhaps what the occasion required. Hoffman did not miss it.

"I know," he said softly. Once again, his eyes slid to that same spot in the room, like a small child might do, if they were contemplating their imaginary friend.

"What?" Melanie asked, more shocked than angry. Hoffman drew closer.

"I know who wrote on the back of those photographs."

Melanie gaped at him, and Hoffman took the time to note just how goddamn PRETTY she was, before he heard Melanie's angry reply:

"Jesus _Christ_! Who is it? Tell me!"

Hoffman drew closer. "Don't tell John," he warned, keeping his voice a whisper- he did not want Amanda overhearing- the bitch had a bad habit of eavesdropping, and then she would run to John and tell him everything.

And Hoffman REALLY didn't want John to know what he had done in regards to the Skinner woman- he knew John would not approve.

Melanie stared back at Hoffman, her lovely green eyes delving deep into Hoffman's ice-blue ones. "I won't," she replied. She was a lot smarter than Amanda- she did not have to be told to understand WHY people did things, and she did not have to be told to keep her voice low.

Hoffman leant in, so that they were almost nose-to-nose. Melanie smelt coffee on his breath, and she was sure that he could smell it on her, as well. They were so close that they might have been going in for a kiss, but then Hoffman moved his lips up, to Melanie's ear, and into it, he whispered the name.

**XxX**

After seeing Perez disappear down the hallway with the twitchy red-headed orderly, Strahm began to whimper in pain, as the drugs working on his legs began to wear off.

The dull ache revved into an almost unbearable roar of pain, and Strahm fought tooth and nail to keep the howl of pain that longed to rip itself from his chest inside of him. He bit into his lower lip in an effort to suppress the cry, but, when his teeth began to into his lips, and blood began to flow, he could hold it in no longer.

He let out a terrible scream of pain that echoed throughout his room. He clenched his fists around the metal bars on either side of his bed, and he screamed again, because his legs, oh, his _LEGS, _they hurt so fucking _MUCH-_

The nurse called Joyce hurried into the room. She put both her hands on Strahm's chest and tried to calm him down, while an orderly (one that Strahm did not recognize- apparently Zep was on break) hurried to fill a needle full of a liquid that Strahm knew all too well- sedative.

"NO!" Strahm shouted, twisting and bucking underneath the nurse's hands, trying to free himself from them, because they were like steel traps, and they would not let go-

"I DON'T NEED A SEDATIVE!"

"Its okay, Agent Strahm," the nurse said, making sure he lay flat on the bed. Her hands, though they appeared gentle, were like vices- Strahm simply could NOT move underneath them. Or perhaps he was so weak that he could not move very much at all, and he was tiring himself out, trying to struggle?

Either way, the stupid nurse didn't get it. Strahm wasn't going hysterical- he needed a fucking painkiller, to ease the pain on his legs!

"Ssh..." Joyce whispered. "Its okay, Agent Strahm. It's okay."

Strahm uncurled one fist from the bars beside his bed, and he gestured downwards frantically. "My legs..." he moaned pathetically.

"Oh," Joyce said, and Strahm knew that she finally got IT- that she actually understood what message he was trying to convey to her. _"Oh." _

She waved the orderly over, muttered something in his ear, and then the orderly was moving away, and he was putting the needle down, and he was reaching for the packet of painkillers-

Just as the orderly began crushing the tablets, Lawrence Gordon walked into Strahm's room, his irritated expression softening slightly when he saw Strahm. He still had the stethoscope around his neck. His white coat flapped behind him, as he strode over to Joyce, whose embarrassed expression grew more pronounced when she saw Gordon. "I've got him, thank you, Joyce," Gordon said curtly.

"Yes, um...Doctor Gordon," Joyce mumbled, flustered. She moved from Strahm's room quickly- Strahm knew she did not like being in the same room as Lawrence Gordon.

Gordon looked Strahm over briefly, accessing his grimace of pain, and the way his hands were locked on the bars on either side of his bed- Strahm was gripping them so tightly that his knuckles were white. "Where are those painkillers?" Gordon shouted, prying Strahm's hands from the bars gently.

"Coming, Doctor Gordon!" The orderly cried, hurriedly mixing the crushed tablets with water. It took only a few seconds, but to Strahm, it felt like an eternity. He growled angrily, as his legs continued to scream at him, begging for those lovely drugs, who would put out the fire almost instantly-

"Here." Gordon pushed the cup to Strahm's lips, and Strahm sipped the liquid down gratefully, eager to be rid of the screaming in his legs.

Once the cup was empty, Gordon took the cup away, and Strahm lay panting on the bed. Already, the pain was beginning to fade.

"We're going to have to double your dosage," Gordon informed Strahm.

"Right."

"That means you're going to have to have the IV drip in longer."

"Okay."

Gordon studied Strahm, evidently checking to see if there was anything wrong with him- it was very rare indeed that Strahm was this agreeable.

"Are you...okay, Agent Strahm?"

"I'm okay," Strahm agreed.

Gordon stared at him. "If you say so," he finally replied, turning to leave.

When he had left, Strahm stared around his empty room, wishing now more than ever that he could get up and walk away, taking Perez with him.

However, that particular dream seemed unreachable.

**XxX**

"Sarah Skinner."

Melanie spat those words angrily, disgustedly- yet she STILL managed to look so damn pretty while doing so. Hoffman nodded mutely.

"She did this to him? To _me?" _

"Yeah." Hoffman sounded pretty damn convincing, even to himself. He was sure that Melanie would swallow the bait- she HAD to- otherwise he, Hoffman, might never get a chance to...

"Well, I'll teach her," she said, breaking Hoffman's train of thought, which was perhaps a good thing, for he was becoming dangerously close to breaking one of John's rules- the one that Hoffman had followed perfectly, from the very first day he had John in his line of work. "I'll teach that fucking _bitch." _

"What are you going to do?" Hoffman asked, actually curious this time.

Melanie smiled darkly. "I'm going to play a game."


	18. Lifeline

**September 27****th****, 1997- Lifeline.**

"Nan, why are we moving?"

The question was sudden, and excruciatingly loud, to Sarah Skinner's ears. She started at the sudden noise, knocking over the pile of clothes she had painstakingly folded the other night- and she fixed her bleary eyes on her grandson, Blake.

Sarah considered her next words carefully. Blake was just a kid- Sarah didn't want to scare him more than he already was- even if that DID mean lying to him. Of just twelve years of age, Blake Skinner had already been through so much. His parents' death two years ago- and now the encounter with the horrific man wearing the pig mask.

Sarah remembered that mask vividly- such a terrible image was hard to erase from the mind, even from one as withered and aged as Sarah's. The mask consisted of a rotting pig's head, bloody smears all over the scraps of skin that covered the neck of the person wearing it, and the hair, oh, the HAIR- the greasy, coarse black hair that protruded from the top of the mask- like some bizarre wig. Wig. That SHOULD have sounded amusing, but the overall effect was quite terrifying.

"We have to get out of the state," Sarah replied slowly, bending to pick up the heap of clothing she had knocked over- her joints creaked audibly, and Sarah found that she could not bend down the entire way. Her legs simply would NOT cooperate. Blake, seeing this, picked up the clothes for her.

"Why?" He asked loudly.

Sarah cast a worried glance towards the door, where she half-expected a shadowy figure wearing that dreadful pig mask to loom. Taylor, who had been in the middle of packing her own things, looked up. She hadn't questioned Sarah when the woman had announced that they were moving; she trusted her grandmother absolutely, and knew that Sarah would do her best to protect her grandchildren- that belief had been reinforced when Sarah had poked those unmarked envelopes into the Dwyer woman's mailbox, resulting in the completion of her 'game'. When her game had been completed, that mask-wearing man had returned her grandchildren, unharmed, and he had administered the antidote to Sarah, carefully injecting the clear fluid into the crook of her elbow. She remembered seeing the eyes behind that mask, and they were the brightest shade of blue she had ever seen- though, bright as they were, they were also cold, cruel.

"Because it's not safe to be in this state at the moment, sweetie."

No, it was not safe at all- and it was the reason why Sarah and her grandchildren were preparing to stay in a hotel that night- Sarah simply did not trust fate enough to believe that the eerie man wearing the pig mask would not return- he knew where she lived now.

Sarah had also seen the news headline, both on the television and in the paper- which described, in detail too intricate to really be allowed for the public, the number of SWAT soldiers and FBI agents who had stormed the latest Jigsaw lair, where many of them perished, in cruel and gruesome ways. Apparently, there were only five members of that initial squad left- and one of them was on life support. That tiny little machine was all the man had left- it was his lifeline, as was the act Sarah Skinner and her grandchildren were about to perform.

Fleeing from the state where the Jigsaw Killer resided was the only lifeline Sarah could provide- and she prayed with all her heart that it would work, and that she and her grandchildren could live in a place where there was no murder, no crime.

It was a wish that would never come true.

**XxX**

Keith O'Hara felt like such a fucking coward. The FBI agent- the pretty one, Lindsey Perez- had asked to see her boss, Agent Erickson. Keith had seen the hope in her eyes, and he felt sick to his stomach at the thought of delivering bad news to such a pretty, nice woman. So he had simply rapped on the door twice, and stuck his head inside Erickson's room, to see that the man's condition hadn't improved since Keith had last seen him:

Erickson was limp on the hospital bed, not moving- the only movement in the entire room was the arched line on the monitor of the machine on Erickson's left: the life support machine.

It was this sight that had made Keith O'Hara swallow the truth and bring forth a ridiculous, yet unquestionable, lie: _'He's sleeping.' _

When he had uttered those words, Keith could tell that Agent Perez didn't believe him, so, in a rush, he had told her that Erickson was heavily sedated, and could not be woken. In a way, he had been telling the truth- Erickson COULDN'T be woken- but it still weighed heavily on the orderly's mind, as he changed the bandages on an unnamed patient. His dark mood seemed to be affecting the patient, who was shuddering in an effort to suppress tears.

"Let it all out," Keith said, more to himself than to the patient, slowly securing the bandages with a silver clip, "Let it all out..."

To his dismay, the patient began bawling. Slightly annoyed, Keith ignored her, continuing to wrap the cloth around the patient's arm, quickly recapping the events of the previous day to himself, to try and rid himself of unnecessary guilt:

"_Oh, nothing," Keith said, struggling inwardly with his emotions. He hated to see people hooked up to a machine, just waiting for the plug, and their life, to be disconnected. "He's perfectly fine." _

_The pretty FBI agent stared at him, her expression slightly disbelieving. Keith returned that stare, knowing that if he should quail underneath it, she would know that he was lying. He didn't want that to happen. _

_After what seemed an age, she looked away, towards the direction of her own room, and she sighed. _

"_Okay." _

"_Do you want to visit anyone else?" Keith inquired, wanting to get away from Erickson's room- the beeping of the life support made him feel nervous, and slightly depressed. _

_Her shoulders slumped in her wheelchair. "No," she sighed. "Just take me back to my room, please." _

_Keith let out a sigh, one of both relief and disappointment. "Okay." _

No, no matter how Keith looked at it, he was the one at fault here- he had purposely lied to an FBI agent- which could, quite possibly, land him in jail.

But Lindsey Perez had been through so much- it seemed brutal to tell her that her boss was brain dead.

Why was Special Agent Daniel Erickson on life support? He was on life support because, while in the Jigsaw lair, he had inhaled too much mustard gas, and it had torn at his lungs, burning them, _frying _them, until Erickson could breathe on his own no more. His lungs had, quite literally, collapsed in on themselves, making it impossible for them to operate without aid.

As he finished with the patient, and he left for his lunch break, he did not notice the doll sitting on one of the waiting chairs.

He SHOULD have noticed it, for no doll could ever look quite like this one: Chalk-white, with thin, vivid red lips, spirals that served as cheeks, a mop of tangled black hair, and seemingly intelligent crimson eyes that stared out from a somewhat skeletal face.

**XxX**

Sarah glanced around her dwelling nervously, clutching a steak knife in one of her withered hands. What was once a place of comfort and relaxation was now a place filled with tension and fear. Her grandchildren never went anywhere alone- more often than not, all three of them moved in a small pack, each of them clutching a weapon of some sort, jumping at noises and unexpected movements.

Whenever they turned a corner, Taylor expected to see the man who'd worn the disgusting pig mask to leap out at them, swinging a heavy blade- or waving a gun.

In fact, her fear of the man was so great that, when they turned a corner, she actually _saw _him standing there for a moment, a silver pistol pointed directly between her eyes. Taylor gasped and swung at him with the knife she held- as the blade passed through the man's stomach, he seemed to melt into the night, blending with the shadows perfectly.

Scared shitless, Taylor continued to gasp heavily, the tears oozing out from her eyes causing her eyeliner to run. Sarah dropped to her knees beside her, ignoring the protests of her joints. "Taylor, honey, it's all right," Sarah whispered, taking the girl's face in her papery hands. "There was nothing there, Tay-Tay."

"He-He seemed so _real_," Taylor whimpered, hiccupping a little. She wiped at her eyes angrily, smudging the eyeliner even more, leaving black smears down her cheeks.

"I know," Sarah replied. "I know he did, honey. But he isn't here with us now. He's gone now. Okay?"

Taylor nodded. She was sixteen, that was true, but she still needed reassurance from someone older than her- in a lot of ways, she was younger than her sixteen years.

"Can we hurry and book the hotel, please?" Blake whispered angrily. He, though only twelve years of age, knew that they had a limited time left to them- he could not explain it exactly, but he felt as if someone, or _something, _was coming for them.

The man who had kidnapped them, Blake knew that he was not alone. He had friends.

This was WHY they HAD to get moving. What if the scary man brought his friends along next time?

**XxX**

While Melanie prepared to do some research on Sarah Skinner, Hoffman drifted from the room, with the intention of getting himself a cup of coffee, while he revelled in the brilliancy of his plan:

He knew Melanie's lover, Kael Simons, had a connection with the old woman, Sarah Skinner, and he, Hoffman, knew that Kael absolutely _despised _Skinner. Once Kael had failed his game, Hoffman had taken a few photographs of his decomposing corpse, scribbled 'THE PROMISE HAS BEEN BROKEN' on the back of one, writing in such a script that could only belong to an old woman.

He had then kidnapped Taylor and Blake Skinner, the old bitch's grandchildren, and he rendered the old woman unconscious. He had then injected her with a slow-acting poison, leaving a tape depicting the rules of her 'game' in her lap.

The rules were simple: Deliver the photographs to Melanie Dwyer, threaten to hand her to the police should she refuse, and, once the photographs had been delivered, and the phone call had been made, Hoffman would administer the antidote to the old bitch, and return her grandchildren, with the promise that he would never return to claim them again.

Once Melanie had been captured and rehabilitated, Hoffman knew that she would eager to find the 'murderer' of her lover- and make them pay. Hoffman had tended to that easily, painting Sarah as the culprit- she had, after all, been the one who had posted the photographs, had phoned Melanie to pass on the terrifying message.

Hoffman knew that if he helped Melanie with Sarah Skinner, she would come to trust him. And, over time, she might even come to believe that he, Hoffman, was her lifeline.

If she thought of Hoffman that way, she would be desperate to pay him back somehow, for helping her kill Sarah Skinner. She would do _anything_ to pay him back, _ANYTHING..._

It was intricate, incredibly so, and so many things could have gone wrong, but it was working perfectly. Hoffman was damn pleased with his efforts- he knew that only HE could have possibly pulled it off; if anyone else had tried, they would have failed. And, more importantly, John would have found out. And he would be mad. Oh, yes, he would be very, VERY mad if he found out what Hoffman was doing.

He might even decide to put Hoffman into a trap if he found out. Or, even worse- he might decide to let _Amanda _make the trap!

And that couldn't happen. He, Mark Hoffman, would not allow it. He'd _teach _Amanda if it came down to it. He really would.

Mark Hoffman smiled, as he sipped his coffee slowly, deliberately.

**XxX**

"Okay," Sarah whispered. "I'm going to book a hotel here on the computer. You two stay with me, now- don't go running off. Okay?"

Her two grandchildren nodded solemnly. There was no way in hell that they wanted to wander the shadowy hallways of Sarah's home- it was a mark of how much things had changed. Normally, the kids LOVED to run around Sarah's house- they were always hiding in cupboards, or under beds- now they were petrified of what they might find in anyplace where shadows seemed to dominate.

Sarah was disappointed that it had come to this- that she was being forced to run away. It wasn't like she hadn't gone to the police after that dreadful encounter, but, when Sarah could not describe the man who had poisoned her, the detective, a man who went by the name of Eric Matthews, dismissed her claims, seeing as Sarah had no visible signs of being attacked, and how could she could not describe the man who had done it. It made her angry, that the authorities could dismiss her claims so easily. She supposed it was because she had not actually been in the typical Jigsaw trap- she had not been bound in any way, and she had not worn a killing device, nor had she been forced to extract flesh from her body.

So, in a way, she could understand where the police were coming from, but that didn't necessarily mean she liked it.

Blake's face looked somewhat ghostly, as the light from the computer screen shone upon his face. The shadows beneath his eyes were enormous- he had had very little sleep since the masked man had kidnapped him and his sister.

Sarah focused her gaze on the screen instead of her grandson's face. There were a number of hotels available, but Sarah was not sure she could drive the whole way- very rarely did she use a car anymore, for her eyes, like the rest of her body, were shutting down. More often than not, she had to wear enormous glasses to see even half as well as her grandchildren did.

Sighing, the old woman moved her eyes down the list of available hotels, trying to find one that wasn't too far away.

"How about that one, Nan?"

Blake pointed to a hotel that was just out of town. Sarah blinked; she was sure that that hotel hadn't been there a moment ago.

She decided not to say anything; after all, it could simply be old age catching up to her at last.

"It seems out of range," Sarah murmured, more to herself than to her grandchildren. "I guess it'll do."

Without further ado, Sarah took the cordless phone from Blake (he had been holding the phone to his breast for the duration of three hours), and she tapped the series of numbers that glared out from the computer screen into the phone.

The old woman pressed the phone to her ear, as the phone began to ring on the other side.

**XxX**

"Any luck?" Hoffman inquired, appearing as suddenly and silently as a ghost. Melanie, understandably, started; the pile of papers she'd had at her desk fell to the floor. She dived to retrieve them; when her slightly flushed face re-appeared, she was scowling.

"No," she said icily, dumping the pile of papers back onto her desk.

"Want some help?"

Melanie sighed. "No."

"Do you even know what you're doing?"

"Not really."

God, the woman was as stubborn as anything- Hoffman could see how she and that psychopath, Kael Simons, ended up as lovers. He placed his now-empty cup of coffee beside the pile of papers, and he surveyed her with those cold eyes of his, making Melanie think of dark tunnels. Like John's, Mark Hoffman's eyes had a hypnotic power about them- once you were enveloped into the dark tunnels, it was hard to escape from them. He held her gaze for a few moments, and Melanie, try as she might, simply could NOT read the thoughts behind them.

Finally, he broke the connection. Turning his attention onto the computer, he spoke to her quietly, doggedly, as though he were afraid she would go and tell John what they were doing, unlikely though it was. "The Skinner woman won't be at her house, so there's no use searching for her there. She'll have gone to a hotel."

Melanie sighed. "There are so many bloody hotels around here."

"True," Hoffman agreed. "But there's only one she will go to."

Melanie stared at him. "What are you saying?"

Hoffman turned those strange eyes on her, and once again, she was sucked into the endless dark tunnels. "She can't drive very far, because of her rapidly declining health. She'll go to the closest hotel available."

Melanie, with some difficulty, wrenched herself out of those tunnels, and she snatched at a particular piece of paper on her desk. Upon further inspection, Hoffman saw that it was a map of Mayfield.

Melanie traced her finger along the lines, until she found what she was looking for. Her finger stopped on the tiny blue square. _"Yes," _she hissed.

**XxX**

Sarah had booked the room, and now she was almost mad with desperation to get out, out of her home, out of Mayfield, out of range from the Jigsaw Killer.

"Help me," she panted at Blake, who was merely standing there, in front of her house, watching his grandmother and his sister hurriedly pack their suitcases.

He seemed to awaken from a daydream, as he looked at her confusedly, seemingly unaware of what was happening for a moment, before her words registered. "Sorry, Nan," he said sheepishly, taking the suitcase from her. It was heavy, perhaps too heavy for a twelve-year-old, but he managed to heave it into the backseat, where he would be sitting. With some effort, he wedged it into the gap where his legs would rest. He did not care if he was uncomfortable in the drive to the hotel- it was not a long way, and besides, he'd had one too many nightmares where his legs had been sliced off by some unknown creature that lurked underneath car seats, and under beds.

At long last, everything was packed, and off they went, down the road, with Sarah and Taylor in front, and Blake in the back, his arms drawn around his legs protectively, as if he was afraid the creature from his dreams would suddenly appear and tear his legs off.

As they passed buildings, Blake wondered if the scary man and his friends would somehow know that they were escaping. Would they come after them?

Though they were no longer in Sarah's house, Blake was still afraid.

**XxX**

He was going to die soon, of that John Kramer was absolutely certain. Every time he coughed, it felt as though he were coughing up parts of his innards- he half-expected to see bits of his own flesh erupt from his mouth when he coughed, the fits were so aggressive.

However, no matter how aggressive the fits were, John still had a number of things he had to do before he died. He had to play a number of games. He had to check on Jill.

He had to make sure nothing had happened to her. He loved her too much, to live with himself if anything happened to her.

**XxX**

"Here we are," Sarah croaked. Blake peered past his sister, and he frowned. The hotel was old and crumbling- it hardly looked fit to house people, even for one night.

"Are you sure this is it?" He asked quietly.

"Of course I'm sure," Sarah snapped. She was tired, and she didn't want to be questioned, even though Blake had reason enough to- the photograph on the internet depicted a modest, CLEAN hotel; it was NOTHING like the place they were at now. "Now just wait while I get the keys."

"I'll come with you, Nan," Taylor offered. Sarah smiled at her.

"That's nice of you, dear. Alright, come on."

The two of them exited the car and made their way to the reception, a miserable little place that had mould growing on the sign and door. Blake saw his sister make a face, as she turned the doorknob to open the door. Blake guessed that the doorknob had mould growing on it, too.

The boy stared out of the window for a while, but eventually, his attention began to wander. Sighing, he reached into his knapsack and pulled out his iPod. Hastily sticking the earpieces in his ears, he turned the music as loud as it could possibly go, the rock music drowning everything else out. Blake thought that if one of the cars in the parking lot blew up, he wouldn't be able to hear it over his music. That didn't bother him.

As the boy leaned back into the seat, sighing contentedly and closing his eyes, a black car nosed its way past Sarah's car. Had Blake bothered to look, he would have seen that the windows were tinted, so it was impossible to tell who was behind the wheel.

The car was silent, as it parked in a space directly opposite from Sarah's car. Blake did not open his eyes, and neither Sarah nor Taylor thought to look out the window, as the driver's door of the car opened slowly, deliberately, with an easy grace. A foot encased in a black boot stepped from the car, followed by the hem of a robe. It was black and red- the shade of red was the same colour as blood.

Blake snuffled loudly, now in a light doze. His head lolled onto his shoulder. The music continued to scream into his ears, blocking all other sound.

The figure emerging from the car was slight, and they moved at a slow, deliberate pace, one of its (gloved) hands shoved deep into a pocket, fingering a hypodermic needle, full of liquid. The hood of the robe was pulled up, hiding the identity of the person underneath it. However, should someone have looked underneath the hood, they would have seen the head of a decomposing pig, with matted black hair curling around the neck- the same mask that often haunted the Skinner family's dreams at night.

The figure moved to Blake's window, simply standing there for a moment, staring at the sleeping boy viciously. It raised a hand and slipped its' fingers underneath the door handle on the car door. There was a brief moment of silence, and then the figure pulled the door open, hypodermic needle poised.

The rush of hot air woke Blake from his slumber. He blinked a few times, muttering to himself, and then he saw the figure. He didn't even have time to scream.

The needle swung down, plunged itself deep into the boy's neck. A gloved finger pushed down on the stopper, filling the boy's veins with a strong sedative.

He reached forward, to perhaps try and remove that mask, to try and see who was behind it, when the sedative worked its' magic. His hand never even got halfway to removing the mask. It quivered once, and then fell down beside the leg of its' drugged user.

The figure glanced around surreptitiously, saw that no-one had seen the brief commotion, and it climbed into the car, easing itself over the backseat, into the boot of the car, where there was plenty of room to spread out and still be hidden from the old woman and her stupid little granddaughter. It got another needle ready, to stab the first person to notice them.

It waited.

It did not have to wait for long. Shortly after, the old woman and her granddaughter left the reception area, jangling their room keys cheerfully. The old woman dropped into the driver's seat, and the younger girl climbed into the seat beside her, frowning. "We're staying for two nights instead of one, Blake," she said. Upon receiving no reply, she turned around, saw her drugged brother, and laughed. "Poor bugger's gone to sleep on us, Nan."

"I don't blame him," the old wretch replied. "He hasn't been sleeping well these past few days."

"None of us have."

"Yes, that's true, but-"

It all happened very quickly then. There was a flash of black and crimson, a jolt of pain, and then...

Silence.

The figure chuckled to themselves, pleased at their handiwork. None of them had put up a fight- such was the talent of using the element of surprise.

After a brief moment of silence, the figure shoved the young girl's lifeless body into the backseat, with her brother. After a moment of consideration, Sarah Skinner was also put in the backseat. The figure didn't want to be closer to the Skinner woman than absolutely necessary.

The figure started the car up, casually tossing the room keys out of the window as they did so. It did not matter that they were not leaving in the car that they had arrived in- it did not belong to them. They had stolen it.

As the battered old car reversed out of the parking space, the figure's hood fell down slightly, and as they went to adjust it, a pair of bright green eyes could be seen briefly.


	19. The Head Crusher Trap

**September 28****th****, 1997- The Head Crusher/Knee Splitter Trap. **

The night was becalmed and curiously silent, as if the small room, hidden far away from prying eyes, was an abandoned and windless beach in the eye of a hurricane, between the tempest past and the tempest coming. A faint scent of blood hung in the motionless air, although there was no blood in the vicinity as of yet.

Sprawled facedown on the cold, hard, floor, Sarah Skinner did not move when she regained consciousness; she waited in the hope that her confusion and stark terror would dissipate.

She blinked, trying to focus her aged eyes on the scene before her. Veils seemed to flutter within her eyes, and she blinked rapidly, trying to erase them from her sight. She sucked in deep breaths of the cool air, tasting the non-existent blood, grimacing at the rustic taste of it.

Shadows loomed like a black mass of robed figures, and, for a moment, they were all wearing pig masks; the terror in Sarah's chest intensified, and she prepared to let out a bloodcurdling scream.

Thankfully, her vision began to gradually clear, and, in the weak yellowish light that came from a single luminescent bulb, she was able to determine her surroundings:

She was in a tiny room, barely larger than the boot of her car. It was dank, dark, and the smell was absolutely horrendous. As Sarah continued to breathe in the disgusting scent, she had to refrain from bringing up all the food she had eaten in the last twenty-four hours.

There was a television set into the wall opposite her. It was outdated, but looked as though it was still operable. The screen was dark. Sarah swallowed nervously, staring at the machine as thought it were an artefact of an alien civilization.

She did not know where she was or how she had gotten there. She could not have not been unconscious for a few seconds, because she had been attacked in her car by that monstrous figure in the black-and-red robes, and the drive to this place, wherever this place _was, _would have taken a good half hour, at the very least.

However, there had been something different about that figure who had attacked her, Sarah remembered. It was not nearly as large as the one who had visited them before. It had been...

When the elderly woman tried to concentrate and bring forth more memories to the edge of her mind, a dull headache developed above her right eye.

She groaned softly.

Sarah got to her feet, swayed dizzily, and nearly fell over an object that had been on the ground beside her. She gingerly bent down and picked it up: a small, rectangular cassette player, with a fresh tape inside. Like the television, it was surprisingly outdated, but, judging from the whirring noises emitting from it, it was still perfectly operational. It was obviously meant for her.

She swallowed back another scream of terror. She knew this tape- it belonged to the masked man. He wanted her to play another game. She was in danger once again.

She looked frantically left and right, searching for an object or an aspect of the scene that would reassure instead of terrify. It was a fool's hope, of course- this time, she was in the masked man's dwelling instead of her own, and, while she was on his chessboard, there could be nothing to reassure the old woman.

When the room offered nothing to reassure her, she turned her attention on the one remaining object in the room that apparently had no purpose- none that she could see, at least.

It was an ominous-looking device, composed of two wooden blocks. Spikes jutted downward from the top wooden slab, and it was there that Sarah found where the scent of blood was coming from- it was crusted all over the tips of the spikes, and sometimes splattered as high as the wooden slabs. Sarah fought to control her stomach- it wanted to upheave all the food she had eaten, reject it in favour of emptiness. She did not want that to happen. She wanted a clear head, so she could complete this latest game without any setbacks, and maybe, just maybe, the masked man would leave her alone.

Sighing, Sarah remembered that she wouldn't be able to complete the game if she didn't hear the rules. With a fluttering heart, her papery finger found the 'play' button.

There was a moment of silence, in which Sarah filled with a low whimper of fright, before the eerily familiar voice issued from the player as easily as water slipped between a child's cupped hands. It was raspy, absolutely bone-chilling, yet Sarah thought there was something different about this voice and the one on the previous tape she'd had- this time, it sounded slightly mechanical.

"Hello, Sarah. The last time we played, you managed to follow the rules, and your reward was given to you. However, through poor moral decisions made previously concerning others, I believe that you did not learn anything the first time we played. So, here you are, once again. I want you to make a choice."

The television screen flickered on. Sarah edged closer, careful not to disturb the spiked device, afraid it might suddenly come to life and gore her viciously. What she saw on the screen made her clap her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with shock:

Her grandchildren, Taylor and Blake, were seated in straight-backed, wooden chairs, staring at Sarah with wild, desperate eyes. Their arms were bound to the back of the chair. Sarah couldn't tell, exactly, but it looked like their legs were bound as well. They were mouthing pleas at their grandmother, but Sarah couldn't hear a single thing they were trying to say. The camera in their room must be one without sound. Nevertheless, the message her grandchildren were trying to convey was obvious: _Help us, Nan. Help us. _

On their heads were metal caps, absurdly twisted and pinched to fit their tiny heads. Connected to the sides of the caps were metal frames, the ends carefully welded onto either side of the cap, and onto either side of the enormous metal slab that served as a plate that sat just underneath her precious grandchildren's jaws. Behind the cap, Sarah could see all sorts of complicated wiring, undoubtedly with the intention of bringing those deadly caps to life.

Sarah swallowed tightly, tears forming in the corners of her aged eyes. She could suddenly see what the point of those ludicrous caps was. They were like giant vices, designed to crush anything caught between the two halves. Her grandchildren's _heads_ were in between the two halves. They were going to be crushed.

"In sixty seconds, the devices attached to your grandchildren will close in on their heads, similar to how a vice might do. Their skulls will be crushed completely. In order to save them, you must counteract the pressure being applied to their heads by inflicting that same pressure on yourself. Simply insert your knees into the device before you, and it will activate, saving your grandchildren from certain death. Your knees will be crushed to dust. Will you give blood to save the blood of others? Keep in mind that your grandchildren are entirely dependent on you- you are their only hope of salvation. However, if you choose not to save them, the doors to both cells will remain sealed, and all three of you will perish. How much blood will you shed to stay alive, Sarah? Live or die, make your choice."

Sarah screamed.

**XxX**

Melanie smiled. Nothing pleased her more than seeing the stupid bitch who had murdered her lover being put in her place- trapped. Trapped in a room where she could only look upon the damage that was being inflicted onto her snotty grandchildren. Unable to do a damned thing about it except follow the rules and shatter her own knees, hoping that it would counteract the pressure being applied to her grandchildren's heads.

Sarah Skinner would finally feel the helplessness that Melanie had felt when she knew that her Kael was dead. Sarah Skinner would finally pay for fucking with Melanie Dwyer.

Melanie's grin only grew, as she watched the old woman scream in horror on the monitor. She'd installed a camera into the room Sarah was in- so Melanie could get all the action firsthand.

Actually, it hadn't been her idea to put the camera in- it had been Hoffman's. He'd been extremely helpful lately: he had stolen a set of those black-and-crimson robes for Melanie, had done it so secretly that only the two of them knew about it- even Amanda had no idea. He'd also stolen a pig mask for Melanie, so she could hide her identity from the Skinner family when she abducted them. Melanie knew the consequences of stealing something from underneath John's nose- and, despite earlier misgivings about the former detective, she found that she did not want any of them to apply to Mark Hoffman.

He was too important to her.

Oh, she felt none of the connections that she had felt with her former lover, Kael Simons, with him, but that didn't mean she necessarily wanted to see his innards splayed out across the floor.

As if he imagined that the theft of the robes and the pig mask were not enough, Hoffman had also brought Melanie some recording equipment. It wasn't the kind that was usually sold at a store; it was much too intricate to be sold at any old drugstore. And it was pretty damned advanced, as well. Hoffman had told her, in a completely neutral tone of voice, that only the FBI had finer equipment, and, with his mesmerising eyes and self-assured tone of voice, Melanie had found it hard not to believe him.

Melanie had had to record her message to Sarah herself, and Hoffman had showed her how to warp the voice so that it resembled John Kramer's to a dime. The end result was pleasing.

Now, as the woman pulled herself from the dredge of memories that were more like flashes from a movie, she noticed something in the corner of her eye.

Those delicate green eyes sought out the stranger as easily as an owl might spot a mouse in the shadows of the night.

"Who are you, and what the _fuck _are you doing here?"

It was a woman, of about twenty-five years, with soft brown hair that waved over her shoulders delicately. She wore a white singlet top, and shorts of a soft shade of blue- pyjamas.

But it was not the bizarre dress code of this young woman that ensnared Melanie's attention. It was the vicious slash across the woman's throat, so deep that the white of bone was visible underneath the strands of muscle and the streams of blood. It was a wonder that the woman hadn't been decapitated!

As Melanie watched in sick fascination, blood dribbled from the gash onto the woman's top, staining it crimson.

The older woman blinked, and when she opened her eyes again, the injured woman was gone.

**XxX**

Taylor Skinner screamed, as the metal dome on top of her head pressed down tightly. The edges of the twisted cap dug into the young girl's forehead, bit into it quite happily, severing the skin as easily as a razor might do. Blood rained into her eyes, and she shook her head wildly, hoping to either fling the device from her head, or at least get the blood out of her eyes.

She accomplished neither. If anything, her frantic attempts to free herself had caused the cap to press down upon her head even more tightly, causing more blood to be spilt. She let out a horrible snarl of frustration, and strained at her bonds. Her hands were bound behind her back with masking tape, and they were bound tightly. No matter how much she strained at them, she couldn't even loosen them the slightest bit.

It wasn't up to her or Blake to save themselves. It was up to their grandmother.

Taylor hoped she would save her and Blake a second time. The cap was peeling her skin away from her forehead as easily as a small child might do when given a wrapped gift.

**XxX**

Sarah considered the device before her. It intimated her, with its blood-encrusted spikes. She did not want to do it, but what choice did she have?

If she chose to sit tight and let her grandchildren die (which was a horrific thought, one that Sarah Skinner would NEVER actually consider), then she, Sarah Skinner, would be shot in the head with the nail gun set that was set into the wall. There was a camera directly above the gun, so Sarah knew that even if she moved out of the direct line of fire, the person on the other side watching her would direct the nail gun to follow Sarah around the room. There would be no hiding, no outsmarting the nail gun. Or, rather, there would be no outsmarting whoever had created this death trap. That was one of the reasons why Sarah Skinner feared the masked man so much- he was so damned SMART.

It was always the smart criminals, the cool and calculating ones, who were the most intimidating. They knew how to scare you, how to bring your biggest fears to life.

And that was exactly what the masked man had done to Sarah. He had brought her nightmares- nightmares which depicted her grandchildren, her only family, being seriously injured- to life. And Sarah now had no choice. She had to save her grandchildren.

She sat down in front of the malevolent device, and she lifted her skirt up- enough so that one pale, skinny knee was visible. "How the hell do I do this?" She murmured, flicking a nervous glance towards the monitor. Taylor and Blake had a river of blood streaming down their faces, oh, their beautiful little _faces_, and the vices on their heads continued to squeeze. Sarah screamed in desperate agony for her grandchildren.

"Taylor, Blake- _NO!" _

Something was happening to Blake. He was gritting his teeth in pain, and then-

Sarah dry-heaved. She couldn't help it.

Her little grandson had been gritting his teeth, and then suddenly, there were no teeth left to grit. They had seemed to bend backwards, into his mouth, and then they had snapped like twigs, some of them pulling out from the gums themselves, leaving gaping holes behind, bleeding profusely.

Sarah knew what had happened. As a young lass, she had been interested in the most disturbing things- including medieval torture. The caps on Blake and Taylor's heads appeared to have something reminiscent of one of the more popular torture devices- the head crushers. Sarah remembered how somebody under interrogation would die, should they refuse to cooperate, even with their head being crushed.

First, their teeth would shatter. Then their eyeballs would be squeezed from their sockets. Finally, their skull would break, and the contents of their head would spill out.

It did nothing but motivate Sarah to hurry the fuck up when she saw that her grandson had already progressed to the teeth-shattering stage.

Sarah screamed again, and thrust her bony knee underneath the device. Thinking quickly, she ripped some of the material from the bottom of her skirt, bunched it up into a kind of ball, and shoved the ball into her mouth, making it serve as a poor substitute for a gag. She bit down on it, squeezing her eyes shut, as the wooden device whirred into life. Those vicious spikes moved towards Sarah's knee, slowly, deliberately- Sarah whimpered in fear and anticipation.

As the spikes moved ever closer to Sarah's knee, and time ticked down, the red light on top of the camera glared at the old woman cowering on the floor like a single, bloody eye.

**XxX**

Peter Strahm woke abruptly from a confusing dream of pig masks and blood, and screamed. The pain in his legs was, if possible, ten times more painful than it had been before.

His arm flailed for the assistance button. He missed it. He tried again, his muscles screaming in protest. His fingertips brushed the bottom of it, and pushed it further away. "What the FUCK!" Strahm shouted angrily, straining to reach it.

After what seemed an age, he managed to push the large red button. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and he ran his hand through his hair wearily, much the same way he would have done if he was at the office. His hand was laced with scars, from the nails in the tunnel, and, as he studied them, they seemed to form a link of sorts- like a chain. "What the hell?" Strahm asked, his pain momentarily forgotten. He traced over a few of these odd scars with his other hand, fascinated. It was almost like someone had tattooed the scars on his hand in a precise and intricate way.

The door opened suddenly, and Strahm looked up, distracted. The pain in his legs returned, and he grimaced. "Want me to crush them for you, Agent Strahm?" Zep asked, who knew the drill quite well by now.

"No, thank you," Strahm panted. He held his hand out. "I'll just swallow them whole, thanks, Zep."

"You're getting stronger," Zep noted, as he dutifully tipped the two caplets into Strahm's hand. "That must be a relief."

Strahm made an agreeable noise, as he swallowed the tablets quickly. Once he was sure the tablets were on their way to his stomach, Strahm had to ask: "Why are my legs hurting more?"

Zep frowned. It was an uncharacteristic expression, and it did not suit him. "I'm not sure about that, Agent Strahm. If you really want to know the answer, I can ask Doctor Gordon for you."

Strahm sighed. He really did not want to talk to Lawrence Gordon, but he supposed that the only way he'd be able to know for sure what was going on with his legs is if he asked. "Okay."

Zep gave Strahm a sympathetic smile and left the room to fetch the cold doctor. Strahm was momentarily left with nothing to distract him from the multiple stabbing pains in his legs.

The scars on his hands no longer interested him. They repulsed him.

Special Agent Peter Strahm stared up at the ceiling, his gray-blue eyes bright with suppressed tears.

He was thinking of Lindsey- _his Lindsey- _when his door opened again, and Lawrence Gordon stalked in. He stopped at the end of Strahm's bed, and fixed his blue eyes on the FBI agents' gray-blue ones. His mouth twitched, and Strahm realized that the doctor was actually trying to smile, like it was an expression he'd long forgotten how to perform.

"I have some good news," he said.

**XxX**

The points of the spikes drove into Sarah's knee. She screamed through the gag, tears spilling out of her eyes. The tears slid down her face with a beautiful (yet terrible), grace. They eased down her face, to her chin, where they arched towards the ground, splattering upon impact.

The spikes bit into Sarah's kneecap, bit into the bone angrily yet happily, sliding through it as though it were nothing but congealed jelly. The strands of muscle beneath the kneecap split. Veins exploded underneath those deadly points of the device. Flesh tore easily- _too _easily.

Sarah screamed, screamed until her throat felt as though it may tear- certainly, she would not have been surprised if it had.

As more points dug into Sarah's kneecap, the perfect dome it had been all of its seventy-five years, shattered. All at once, the dome of Sarah Skinner's kneecap shattered. Sarah stared at it for a moment, not comprehending. Then, with a final glance at the television screen, which depicted that Taylor had now lost her teeth as well, she thrust her second knee into the device, and the spikes dug into it hungrily, tearing the flesh away, revealing the bloodied kneecap, with strands of ligament clinging to it desperately.

The rush of open air on her knee felt like fire. It burned, burned like Hell, and Sarah screamed again, clenching her eyes shut, refusing to look at her kneecaps being crushed before her eyes. As her second dome collapsed, there was fresh blood being spilt. Shards of the second kneecap tore Sarah's skin open, peeled it away from the bone as easily as anything. Sarah still refused to look, yet she knew what had happened. She could feel the air eating away at her exposed muscle, and she screamed again, because there could be no greater pain than this, no greater pain than feeling something drive through your kneecaps, and having parts of those kneecaps rip your legs open...

Sarah Skinner promptly lost consciousness, before she had time to see that the devices on each of her grandchildren's heads had stopped, before she had time to savour the bittersweet victory. Before she had time to realize that she had beaten the masked man for a second time.

**XxX**

Mark Hoffman eased back into the control room, where he was not surprised to find Melanie in furious tears. "She beat me," she whispered furiously, her hands balled into tight little fists, "That fucking bitch fucking _beat_ me."

"Or so she thinks," Hoffman said shortly, pushing past Melanie, to find the large red button that activated the nail gun. Melanie's eyes lit up, sharply illuminating her gorgeous little face, before a frown shattered the image.

"Hoffman, we _can't_," she said plaintively. "We can't."

"John doesn't have to know," Hoffman answered, turning his cold, blue eyes on the monitor, where the old woman lay, unconscious for the moment. His finger hovered over the button, and he snuck another glance at Melanie. She was excited, despite her misgivings about breaking John's rules. She was beginning to trust him, Hoffman thought, smirking. She was coming to _need _him.

His plan was working perfectly.

Hoffman's finger slammed down on top of the button.


	20. Consequences

**September 28****th****, 1997- Consequences.**

Melanie smiled in satisfaction, as the nail gun whirred into life. Hoffman had fixed the gun so that he would have to press the button twice before the gun fired, to give him time to adjust it appropriately. One touch of the button brought the nail gun to life. Another would activate it, unleashing a barrage of nails from its depths.

It was positioned so that it would shoot the old bitch right between the eyes, piercing her brain. She would die almost instantly.

It was a fitting death for someone like Sarah Skinner, someone who so obviously _deserved _to die, someone who had very little regard for human life, not just their own, but others as well. Oh, she put up a good show of caring for her grandchildren, but she, Melanie Dwyer, saw through the charade. Hoffman had told her some of Sarah Skinner's history, and, should it ever be made into a book, there would be blood on every single page. He had told her why the two children, Taylor and Blake, were living with their grandmother in the first place: he had told her how Sarah had hated their parents, and she had murdered the two of them in their sleep, when Taylor was eight, and Blake only four.

Melanie did not dare to question how Hoffman knew this. He had spoken with such conviction, such _certainty, _that Melanie had no choice but to believe him. She knew that he was, apart from John's accomplice, an officer of the law, a detective, and such officers were well-informed of just about everything regarding the law and those who broke it.

It was only natural that he would know about Sarah Skinner's bloody history.

"Ready?" He asked her now, and she nodded. She desperately wanted to see the life leave Sarah Skinner's body, to see the murderous old cunt be laid to rest at last. She would have liked to see the life leave Sarah's eyes, to see the horror and realization on her wrinkled face, but Melanie would settle for simply watching her die.

"Do it." The words were terse, nervous. Because, no matter how pleasing it would be to see Sarah Skinner die, there was no getting around the fact that the two of them were breaking John's rules, and the consequences for doing so were great- death.

Hoffman surveyed Melanie for a moment, his expression unreadable. It felt to Melanie as though he were probing her for some sign of regret, almost as if she was being x-rayed. Though it made her uncomfortable, she did not lower her gaze.

Though he couldn't have looked at her for no more than several seconds, it felt like an eternity to Melanie.

Finally, thankfully, he turned his attention back onto the monitor. His finger hovered over the button, ready to push it a second time. It was almost as if he were teasing her, prolonging the moment before Sarah Skinner would die.

Melanie balled her hands into fists, her nails digging into the soft flesh of her palm. Pain flared, but she took no notice. There were far too many emotions in her for there to be enough room for one more. Anxiety, anticipation, longing, bloodlust...

Hoffman stole a glance at Melanie, doing so in such a manner that she, even if she looked his way, would never surmise that he was staring at her. His ice-blue eyes took in her anxious expression, the beads of sweat glistening on her forehead, and how her delicate hands were clenched in tight fists. She wanted Sarah to die, but she was also worried about John or Amanda finding out what they were doing. She needn't worry- Hoffman had taken more than enough precautions to be sure that they wouldn't accidentally stumble upon their wrongdoings.

Hoffman decided he had waited long enough, and he pressed the button for the second time, activating the nail gun. The low whirring of the gun became a roar, and Melanie was suddenly there at Hoffman's side, staring at the monitor, her beautiful green eyes eager. Her hands were no longer in fists- they were now clenching the chair in front of her, as she watched the gun activate.

The nails seemed almost graceful, as they shot out of the gun and soared towards Sarah's head. There was little more than a foot between the gun and its target, but nevertheless, there was enough time for Melanie to appreciate the dark beauty of the nails, the way they shone in the dying light.

There was very little sound, when the nails penetrated Sarah's skull- something that, despite how sick it was, disappointed Melanie. She had been hoping to hear the nails grind their way into the old woman's skull, to hear the cruel but beautiful metal puncture the wetness that was Sarah's brain. Still, Melanie could appreciate the sight of Sarah's demise.

The nails were approximately six inches long- long enough for the point to poke out the other side of Sarah's head. The silver was enveloped in crimson, and pieces of papery flesh clung to the nails, as did scraps of brain. Shards of bone littered the floor, like a blanket. Sarah's body twitched mindlessly. She was already dead, but her body continued to move- not unlike how some animals' bodies kept moving though they had been beheaded. The movement were pure reflex- there was no meaning to the jerky movement of neither the limbs, nor the rapid opening and closing of the mouth.

Melanie and Hoffman watched Sarah Skinner die, her movements slow, the life slowly drain from the old woman. Melanie watched her lovers' murderer die, and there was no remorse in her expression, merely dark amusement. It struck her as amusing that, in a way, Kael had gotten his revenge. That, even in death, there was no escaping Kael Simons.

Once Sarah moved no more, Hoffman turned away from the monitor, picking up a pig mask as he did so. Now that that old bitch was finally dead, there would be no question that Melanie would trust in him now. He had, after all, informed her of her lover's 'murderer', and he had helped her get revenge. Of COURSE she would trust him now.

The thought made the former detective smirk. Everything was in place, except for one- Angelina. Where the fuck was she? She had helped her brother concoct the plan- did she not want to see the glorious results? Had she abandoned him?

He hoped she had not. He loved her, and she was perhaps the only person he had ever loved. To toy with the idea that she was gone for a second time invoked a deep ache within him, in his chest. He felt hollow without his sister, his Angelina.

"Mark?"

Hoffman turned, to see Melanie smiling at him, also holding a mask identical to his. She looked so goddamn PRETTY when she smiled, he thought, the smirk on his face becoming more pronounced. It was almost as if she were a new person when she smiled. All the stress, all the tension, it seemed to literally melt off her face when she smiled.

"Yes?"

Melanie's grin seemed to grow in both size and sincerity. She moved towards him, and, to his surprise, linked her arm with his. His initial reaction to such a show of affection was to throw her off, to shout at her angrily, but he allowed her arm to stay. She was, after all, simply showing that she trusted him now. She was unintentionally telling him that his plan was working ceaselessly.

He was not about to ruin his plan now by acting like a dickhead.

"Thank you."

He did not reply, but Melanie did not seem offended. She merely tightened her grip on his arm, as he led her out of the room, instinctively looking both ways before he proceeded, checking to see if anyone could see their obvious show of affection, something that broke one of John's rules, the one that Hoffman had been following resolutely, perfectly:

_The heart cannot be involved. Emotionally, there can be nothing there. It can NEVER be personal. _

Upon seeing nothing out of the ordinary, the two accomplices moved towards the second room, where the children were held, with the intention of freeing them. As they approached them, they both pulled the masks over their faces, hiding their identities from the children. Melanie had insisted on freeing Taylor and Blake. They, after all, did not have Sarah's bloody history.

As their footsteps faded away, Amanda Young stepped out from her hiding place, her eyes wide with shock.

**XxX**

There were not many police officers left untouched in the homicide department, and Allison Kerry was one of them. So it was inevitable that she be one of the unfortunate few to be called to the apartment where Jill Tuck once resided. The woman, who had once been married to the man nicknamed the Jigsaw Killer, was dead- that much was obvious.

Her corpse lay on the couch, and it looked as though somebody had positioned her so that it looked as though she might be resting- if not for the fact that she had no head. Her hands lay at her sides, the skin a dark yellow colour. Kerry knew that if she were to lift one of those thin arms up, the skin would simply sag off the bone- Jill had been dead for that long. Kerry was not surprised that it had taken this long for somebody to realize that she was dead- like her ex-husband before her, Jill Tuck did not have any close friends, nor did she have any acquaintances. The woman preferred her own company over anyone else's.

She had been found by her landlord, when he had come up to demand that she pay him her rent.

A sudden flash of light jerked Kerry from her reverie. Frowning slightly, she turned towards the source of the light, to see Detective Fisk holding a camera aloft. He was taking photographs of the crime scene. He caught her eye and shrugged- a wordless apology. She nodded and moved closer to the body, her eyes taking in every meticulous detail. Aside from the headless body on the couch, there appeared to be nothing else out of the ordinary. Everything was in pristine condition- the murderer hadn't forced his way in, nor had Jill put up a fight.

"What the hell?" She murmured under her breath. "Did she fucking _let _him in?"

"Looks like it," Fisk said, sliding the camera strap around his neck, letting the bulky camera hang around his neck. "There's no indication of a break-in."

Kerry was about to reply when there was another flash of light. It momentarily blinded her, and she blinked rapidly, to try and erase the whiteness from her eyes. It did not come from Fisk, of that she was absolutely certain.

And she was right. The flash of light came from no police officer, but from a young woman, hidden from police eyes. She had long, blonde hair, and a pair of black glasses adorned her face, as she hurriedly tucked the cheap plastic camera into a shoulder bag. Glancing around surreptitiously, she brought out a notepad and began to scribble frantically, before anyone realized that a reporter was at the scene of the crime, before anyone realized that Pamela Jenkins was not welcome here.

She had to get everything down before she was discovered.

She had an important story, a very important story indeed. And she had to get it to her boss as quickly as possible.

**XxX**

Strahm waited, but Gordon did not elaborate. He was either waiting for Strahm to ask, or he had been joking. Strahm waited for a few more moments, before he sighed.

"What is it?"

Gordon's mouth twitched again, obviously trying to smile. He almost managed it. "Well, while you've been asleep, I've been testing the overall potential of your legs, Agent Strahm, and the good news is that you will be able to walk again."

Strahm blinked. "What?"

"You're going to be able to walk again."

It was a moment or two before the doctor's words sunk in, and when they did, Strahm felt a wave of overwhelming relief. He had been worried that he may never walk again, never know what it would be like to walk alongside Perez, and never do any of the things that so many people took for granted. He heard an odd choking sound, before he realized that it was HIM making that noise, and that he was crying, actually CRYING with relief.

He was not a cripple anymore. He really was going to be okay.

**XxX**

For the first time since she had joined John's cause, Melanie Dwyer felt truly at ease with herself. Of course, there was still the pain of knowing that her lover, along with her friends, were dead, but she was now in safe hands. The man she was holding onto was strong, absurdly so, and she felt safe in his presence.

Because she was at ease, Melanie found it easy to push the many stressful memories from her mind- including the ones depicting the injured girl.

It was just the two of them, walking to free two very scared and injured children, and Melanie would be lying if she were to say that she did not enjoy Hoffman's company. His presence was nothing like Kael's had been, but she took great comfort in it nevertheless.

As the two of them walked along the corridor, not saying anything to each other, Melanie had to wonder what she could do to pay Hoffman back. She _owed _him.

What would he ask of her if she were to inquire what he wanted? She knew very little about Mark Hoffman- certainly not enough to know what he would want in return.

But there would be plenty of time to worry about such things. Wouldn't there?

**XxX**

Pamela was in the middle of writing a sentence when a shadow fell over her. She looked up, to see an unimpressed Eric Matthews staring down at her. She swallowed tightly.

"Detective, I know what this looks like, but-"

"Get out."

"Excuse me?"

The detective leaned close. Pamela could smell coffee on his breath, he was that close. Reluctantly, she looked into his furious eyes for a moment, before dropping her gaze to her notepad. Matthews followed her stare, and his frown hardened, if that was at all possible. Anger was rolling off of him in huge waves, and he was dangerously close to losing control. His anger was the precise reason why he had retired to desk work- the only reason he was on patrol at the moment was because there was no-one else left to ask. His entire department was either dead or otherwise indisposed.

"I think you heard me," he said now, keeping his voice low- yet it still managed to sound aggressive. "Now get out, Miss Jenkins, before I tear up that notebook of yours and have you charged with trespassing."

"I-"

"GO!" He suddenly roared. Kerry and Fisk looked to Matthew's direction, confused. Pamela hastily shoved her notebook into her bag and fled.

Matthews glared at the young reporter, as she shut the door behind her with a snap.

"Damn reporters," he muttered, returning to his comrades.

**XxX**

Pamela sighed. She had known she was going to get caught, but this story was well worth the infamy. Her boss was going to be extremely pleased. The ex-wife of the Jigsaw Killer being murdered may even get her a raise!

The thought was too good to resist. Pamela decided that she simply had to inform her boss of the good news at once.

Moving away from the apartment, she produced a silver mobile from her shoulder bag. She clicked through a number of contacts she had on speed-dial (which included her brother, William Easton), before she found the one she so desperately needed.

She smiled, as the phone rang. She did not have to wait for long. After only one ring, her boss picked up.

"Hey, boss. Yeah, it's me. Listen, you are _not _going to believe this..."

**XxX**

Hoffman pried the Head Crushers from the children's heads easily enough. The kids, Taylor and Blake, made no noise when this was being done to them, even though this surely hurt them- at one point, Hoffman had had to pull some of the metal out from the flesh of Taylor's forehead. The metal was slick with the young girl's blood, and Melanie wondered sickly if it had penetrated her brain. The lack of reaction to the pain was unnerving.

Perhaps they were in shock?

But then Hoffman began to untie their bonds, and the children began to whimper. They could do no more than that; with partially-broken jaws, it was a miracle that they COULD whimper. They struggled weakly in their chairs, and Melanie guessed that they were woozy from the blood loss. That was not her problem- there was nothing she could do to help them, anyway.

Yet she could not help the small twinge of regret that she felt, as she watched Hoffman untie the kids- she shifted uncomfortably, knowing full well that to feel regret was to be weak, regardless of how strong the feeling was.

She could not afford to be weak- not in her profession.

So she reluctantly moved forwards and helped Hoffman with the children- it was, after all, the least she could do.

Once the kids were untied, the two of them lifted them gently from the chairs, and placed them on the floor- well, Melanie lifted Blake gently, whereas Hoffman jerked Taylor roughly to her feet, not being careful in the slightest.

He was not weak. He was strong, stronger than Melanie. Probably stronger than Amanda.

In fact, when John died, he would probably become his successor.

"Leave them," Hoffman murmured to Melanie, easing her hands out from underneath Blake's armpits. "If they want to live, they'll find a way out."

Melanie nodded solemnly and followed Hoffman from the room.

**XxX**

Later that night, Melanie awoke to see a shadowy figure hovering at the end of her bed. She gasped and reached for her handgun- in her desperation, her fingertips did nothing but push the firearm off the bedside table, where it clattered uselessly to the floor. Melanie would have tried to reach it, but the figure had ensnared her attention, and she would not expose herself, make herself vulnerable.

"Who are you?" Melanie demanded, angry.

The figure answered not in words, but in movement. It moved forwards, until the moonlight shone down upon its face:

It was the injured woman from before. Still, her neck wound dribbled profusely, staining the beautiful white of her shirt crimson. Her arms were also smattered with gore.

Melanie stared at the woman. The woman stared back, her expression one of the utmost sorrow. As the botanist stared, a tear slipped from the corner of the woman's eye, and it slid down her face slowly, gracefully.

"What do you want?"

The woman did not answer.

"What do you want?"

Again, there was no answer. Melanie's eyes began to water- she had not blinked once during this whole encounter, for fear that the injured woman might disappear again.

Finally, Melanie had no choice but to blink. It took only half a second, but when she opened her eyes again, the injured woman was gone. However, she had not left without a trace.

Melanie saw that the window in her room was ever so slightly open.


	21. Infringement

**September 29****th****, 1997- Infringement. **

Amanda rose early the next day, with the intention of revealing Hoffman and Melanie to John. However, to do that, she needed proof, and the only way she could think of to obtain this proof was to return to the scene of the crime.

She knew that they had been a number of places together, but, seeing as the control room was where she had seen them most recently, she would start there. Surely she would find SOMETHING to implicate them.

Then again, this _was_ Hoffman.He had managed to fool John for God knew how long, without a single slipup. He was careful, he was meticulous, and he certainly took no risks. It would be a damned good stroke of luck if Amanda found anything at all.

She crept down the hallway, her eyes wide and searching. She knew Hoffman would install security measures to keep people from finding what he and Melanie had been up to. She knew it was likely that they would be security traps, giving no warning at all, and she kept her eyes peeled for anything that indicated a trap, trip-wires, motion sensors, unusual devices lying about. She had to be extremely careful, because, she knew, that if Hoffman were to discover her now, he would kill her. Why would he do so? Because Amanda Young had crossed an invisible line- the line that determined (in Hoffman's eyes) whether she would live or die. Amanda was too great a threat to be kept alive.

There were no traps to be seen, not even a security camera- the overall lack of security disturbed Amanda more than if she'd actually seen any security. Security was easy to dodge, if it was obvious to the eyes. Invisible security, however...

Amanda swallowed tightly and hoped that Hoffman was not already aware of her presence, merely waiting for a time when she turned a corner, or lowered her guard, and he leapt out at her, ruining any chance the woman might have had at notifying John. For John had to know; he was considering Hoffman to be his successor, and to have someone like _him_ to succeed John...

That could NEVER happen. John's work would be wasted.

As Amanda drew closer to the door at the end of the hallway, she drew out her only weapon- a pistol. She had to bring some form of protection with her- to not do so would be incredibly stupid.

She paused before she thrust her gun into the doorway, hoping that nobody was in the room. Melanie, she was sure she could handle. But Hoffman? He was easily a foot or so taller than Amanda was, and considerably heavier. He was also a member of the police force, and had had training. Amanda was not inexperienced, exactly, but nor was she up to Mark Hoffman's standards.

When she stepped into the doorway, her heart galloping away at a hundred miles a minute, she was relieved to see that the room was empty. She let out a sigh of relief, lowering her pistol. She was not going to put it away, God no, but nor was she going to meander around the room holding the gun in front of her, the muscles in her forearm taut. To do so would bring unwanted and unnecessary discomfort.

Her eyes scanned the room, seeking anything out of the ordinary. The room was fairly small, barely large enough to house more than four people. A control panel took up most of the space, thrust against the back wall, with a beaten-up old chair that looked like it was in its' prime about fifty years before perched in front of a particularly complex display of buttons. It was obvious, however, which one was used to kill the old woman. All of the other buttons were coveted in a layer of dust, save for a single red one, situated in the middle of the panel, directly in front of an ageing monitor, whose screen was dark. Amanda investigated this monitor interestedly. It was obvious that the monitor did not belong there, that Hoffman (or Melanie) had placed it there.

Amanda ducked her head behind the monitor, and saw that the monitor's cord had been pulled from the electric socket. "Interesting," she murmured. For Mark Hoffman, this was sloppy. But perhaps that was his intention- to trick Amanda into thinking that he was getting sloppy, when in fact he was growing in skill.

Amanda turned away from the monitor- the dark screen unnerved her- and searched the rest of the room. Aside from the control panel, there was also a single bookcase (with no more than five pieces of literature apiece), carelessly pushed against a side wall. Amanda flipped through each of these books, but there was nothing of interest there. The books were simply remnants of the people who had used this room previously.

There was only one other item that could be of importance- a wastepaper basket. To Amanda's surprise, it was overflowing with discarded pieces of paper. The woman considered the bin briefly. Could it contain any evidence against Hoffman?

She thought not. However, she intended to be thorough in her search for evidence, and she did not want to leave any single place unsearched, for even the smallest scrap of evidence could be enough to condemn Mark Hoffman.

So it was with a feeling of slight anticipation that Amanda Young plunged her hands into the pit of white paper, sifting through it, clutching at random scraps, and then pulling them out and peering at them, before dismissing them and throwing them into a corner of the room. She did not intend to leave them there; she would place them back into the bin as soon as she was finished.

Her eyes fell upon a corner of a photograph. It had been taken relatively recently, and had obviously been looked after (aside from being thrown into the bin, of course). It was glossy and still looked new, even though Amanda couldn't see much of it. Curious, she pulled it from the bin, and she squeezed her eyes shut, her stomach heaving. One thing was for certain- this photograph had something to do with Hoffman.

When she was sure that she would be able to keep the contents of her stomach inside of her, Amanda took another look at the photograph:

The control room was dark, the lighting poor- Amanda hadn't dared to turn on a light, for fear of what it might do- the sudden flare of light could easily alert Hoffman to her location. Yet Amanda could make out that the photograph was of a man, in his early to mid-twenties, with a mop of dark hair. Further inspection revealed the man to be Kael Simons, one of the four criminals that Hoffman had suggested be tested. On his neck was the razor collar that she, Amanda Young, had created.

The man was lying in a puddle of his own blood. Pieces of yellowing flesh, visible even in the poor lighting, were there in amongst the blood. Amanda's stomach heaved again, as she realized who must have taken the photograph. It hadn't been her- _why _would she do such a thing? It was disgusting! And she knew it couldn't have been John- he took no pleasure whatsoever in seeing his subjects die. He would not take photographs of those who had failed- it went against everything he was working towards. Melanie obviously couldn't have done it.

That left only one other person: Hoffman.

But _why _would he do such a thing? Was it for his own sick pleasure? Amanda didn't think so, because Hoffman rarely portrayed emotion of any sort, and, when he did, it was because he was acting.

So why, then? What was the reasoning behind the actions? For there HAD to be a reason for why Hoffman was going behind John's back, why Hoffman was using Melanie like a puppet, why he had taken the photograph.

Amanda turned the photograph over, and felt her blood run cold. On the back of the photograph, written in meticulous, curly script, were the words 'THE PROMISE HAS BEEN BROKEN.'

The words looked as though they had been written by a woman, and not a man- such script could only be printed by a woman. The letters were intricately linked, and were slightly slanted. The overall effect, though quite neat, was frightening, for Amanda had seen this type of writing before, on only one other occasion. She remembered it quite clearly, as if it had happened only hours before:

"_Mark," John said, sounding pleased. "You have news?" _

"_Yes." _

"_Good news, I hope?" _

_Hoffman's mouth twisted into a sneer. "The best, John." The accomplice moved to John's side, producing a small notepad. He did so in such a manner that it was impossible to see what was on the notepad, unless you were right beside him, and were able to crane your neck. _

_Amanda watched as John took the notepad from Hoffman, his hands shaking slightly. A lump seemed to swell in her throat at the sight. She hated seeing John so frail, so...old. It was unnerving. _

_Hoffman held John's wrists, ceasing the trembling, and Amanda crept closer, desperate to see what Hoffman had written. It couldn't have been anything good, because John's expression was pained- and only grew in depth the longer he read the note. _

_Amanda, suddenly desperate to see what was on the note, leapt forward with sudden speed, catching Hoffman off guard. Her hand lashed out for the scrap of paper, and she tugged it from her mentor's grip, turning the paper toward her, revealing a meticulous, curly script-_

"_That's none of your business," Hoffman growled, taking the paper from Amanda with unnecessary force. His eyes were fierce, and they bored into Amanda's, forcing her to quail before him. _

_He had then left the room silently, leaving Amanda speechless. _

_Amanda had not gathered the courage to ask her mentor about the note until two days had passed, in which two of the original four friends had failed their tests. John had been very quiet during that time, and Amanda knew it had something to do with the note. "John?"_

_He did not answer her, but merely continued to gaze at the wall blankly. His eyes were unfocused. Amanda tried again, worried for her mentor. _

"_John? What's wrong?" _

_John turned towards her with a saddened expression. His eyes were unnaturally bright- were they bright with TEARS? "Jill Tuck," he began, his voice trembling slightly. "Wants to go to the police and expose us." _

_Amanda blinked. "What?" _

_John sighed. "Mark brought me a note that Jill wrote herself. She wants a way out of this, and, seeing as I have not provided her one as of yet, she has decided to create her own way out: handing us in." _

"_No. No, she wouldn't do that to us-" _

"_It was her _handwriting_, Amanda. I was married to her for three years. You think I would not recognize her handwriting?" _

Amanda sucked in a deep breath, hardly daring to believe it. Hoffman had WRITTEN Jill's 'note', declaring that she wanted out- thus giving Hoffman a reason to kill her. Oh, Amanda knew that Hoffman had killed Jill- she had SEEN him driving away in the direction of her apartment, and when he returned, he had REEKED of blood- such a smell was hard to get rid of. As if any more evidence was needed, Amanda had also smelt Jill's perfume on him. It had been very faint, but it had been unmistakeably there. Jill hadn't written the note. Hoffman had outright murdered her- for no particular reason.

And the writing on that note matched the printing on the photograph.

Which meant that Hoffman had almost certainly written on the photograph as well. But why? Why would he have written 'the promise has been broken' on a photograph of Melanie's dead lover?

It made no sense.

Amanda sighed heavily. She knew that the only way she would know everything was to ask Hoffman himself- and there was no way in _hell _he would tell her anything!

Yet she had enough to confront John with. She would show him the photograph, and ask him if the writing was the same as Jill's. If, no, _when _he confirmed, she would inform him that his ex-wife _couldn't _have written on the back of the photograph, because she had already been dead for a few days.

That was going to be the hardest part of it all- telling John, her leader, her teacher, her _father, _that his ex-wife, whom he still loved profusely, was dead. Amanda didn't want to do this to John, but it was vital that he did know- otherwise Hoffman would walk free. He would continue to murder. He would continue to disgrace John.

And that was something that Amanda was NOT going to let happen. As much as it would hurt John, she knew that he would be grateful that he knew; he would be able to put a stop to Hoffman once and for all.

Amanda sucked in another great whooping gasp, trying to keep herself under control. It was not easy; her vision was becoming blurred, and her breath constantly caught in her throat. She clutched the glossy photograph to her breast, knowing that it was her- and John's- only hope.

Yet the confrontation with John was not the only barrier that Amanda had yet to overcome. She needed proof that Jill was dead, so that John would believe her, and not think that she was lying. She had been absolutely truthful to John, for the most part, and she shuddered to think of what would happen should he not believe her when she chose to confront him.

But where would she obtain this proof? It wasn't as if she could return to the scene of the crime- that particular act might end up painting her as the prime suspect, at least in John's eyes. Perhaps she could ring someone? No, that wouldn't work. She was a fugitive, and anyone who happened to recognise her voice would call the police, and they could easily trace the call back to where Amanda was- the new lair.

But, then again, if Jill had been dead for over a week, then surely the media would know about it? Jill was John's ex-wife- being the ex-wife of one of the most wanted people in the country certainly granted you some fame, however unwanted it may be. The news that Jill was dead would surely be news headlines, once the media found out! And, since Amanda had been watching the news studiously over the past week, and seeing nothing of particular interest there, the media must not have found out about Jill yet. However, when they did...

It seemed as though Amanda now had the proof she needed.

**XxX**

John was dozing lightly when Amanda appeared in his doorway, her chest heaving. She had hidden the photograph in her pocket, so that if Hoffman or Melanie should have walked in, they would not know that they had been discovered. Amanda kept her hand clenched around the small square-shaped piece of paper. If anyone wanted to get it off of her, they would have to pry it from Amanda Young's cold, dead fingers, because there was no way in _hell _she was EVER going to let it go.

Hoffman and Melanie would never suspect that she had been in their 'lair', because she had taken great care in cleaning up after herself. She had scoured every inch of the room, making sure that nothing looked out of place, and she had fixed up the few objects that did.

The only way they would find out was if they searched the place for fingerprints- Amanda had forgotten to wear gloves. It had been a careless mistake, and it was one that she berated herself for.

However, there were more important matters to attend to.

Amanda moved closer to John, who was resting on a beaten-up old mattress. It was particularly lumpy in some places, but it was the best they had to supply him with. After Melanie's little fucked-up game, they had had to make do with what they had. The goddamn police had John's makeshift hospital bed. Amanda was only glad that they had not gotten his wheelchair. That wheelchair was John's only way of moving about these days- he was far too weak to move on his own, and it appeared to pain him to even stand up, let alone walk.

He was sprawled on the mattress, his mouth slightly open, yet he did not look uncomfortable. He looked more comfortable, more at peace with himself that he ever had at that moment.

Amanda sighed, watching her mentor sleep. She wished now more than ever that he could walk without grimacing in pain, could talk without coughing, and could live without the cancer that plagued him so.

She hated to wake him. But it was vital that he knew. And she had to tell him before either Hoffman or Melanie arrived.

She shook his shoulder gently. "John?" she whispered. He stirred, turning over slightly in his slumber. Amanda tried again.

"John?" She shook his shoulder again.

He opened one bleary eye, as though wary of who it might be, and, when he saw that it was Amanda, opened the other. "Amanda?" he croaked, sensing her distress. "What is it?"

Amanda took a deep breath. She struggled to control her emotions, which threatened to bubble and overflow. She couldn't let that happen. She needed a clear head. "I-" she began, and found it difficult to go on. John watched her intently, all traces of sleepiness gone now. The breath in her throat caught once more, and it literally became a struggle to say anything more. But she knew she had to be strong. For John's sake. For her own. "I-I have something to t-tell you," she finally stuttered. John tried to sit up, and his expression of concern became one of intense pain.

Seeing this, Amanda helped him sit up, her hands trembling as she did so. John did not miss it, and a frown made itself known on his aged face. "What is it, Amanda?"

Amanda reached into her pocket. "Before I tell you," she began, her voice wavering, as her control faltered momentarily, "I need you to tell me whether the writing on this photograph is the same as Jill's." She produced the photograph, which she had folded neatly, and she deftly unfolded it and held it out to John, who took it.

His eyes widened, as he processed first what the photograph was of, and then the nature of the writing on the other side. Though his expression revealed little, Amanda could sense his shock. She didn't want to do this, but at the same time, she had to.

She waited until John looked away from the photograph. He met her impatient, stricken stare. "Yes," he finally rasped, handing the photograph back. Amanda waited, but John said no more. She took another, shuddering breath, and placed the photograph back in her pocket.

"John, Jill didn't write that on the back of the photograph."

John raised an eyebrow. "If she did not, Amanda, then who did? You remember I was married to her for three years, don't you? I know her handwriting. That was it."

"John, I am so sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but Jill, she...she's dead." Despite herself, Amanda felt tears slide down her face, making tracks down her smudged face- in her desperation to find out the truth, she hadn't bathed, or tended to herself in any other way.

John's face hardened. "No. I do not believe that." He turned away from her, facing the wall. When he next spoke, his words were cold, cruel- and reminded Amanda of the very person she was trying to condemn- Hoffman. "Leave me now."

Now shaking with suppressed sobs, Amanda stood up. Her hair, which had been tied back, was falling down around her face, making her appear even filthier than she really was. She stared at her mentor with wide, hurt eyes, before her hand struck out at what was nearest her- a television set. She did not, as John may or may not have expected, strike the television down, but rather, hit the button that brought the ageing machine to life. The button was big and bulky, so there was no possible that she could have missed.

With a groan, the outdated television turned on. The image on the screen was fraught with static, but it could still be seen fairly easily. As Amanda had hoped, the image was that of a newsreader, a man in his early thirties.

The sudden rush of sound startled John, who turned to face the screen, confusion written all over his face. "What are you doing?" he asked his apprentice, who held a finger to her lips and made a shushing sound.

"Listen, John."

The newsreader looked up from his collection of papers. He shifted them into place, before flashing a broad smile at the fugitives. "Good morning, I'm Daniel Paxton. For our top story, we turn now to Pamela Jenkins." He inclined his head towards a young woman with blonde hair who wore a pair of black glasses. She inclined her head slightly at Daniel, and smiled broadly before addressing John and Amanda:

"Thank you, Daniel. There's a bewildering mystery at this hour. Jill Tuck, ex-wife of the infamous Jigsaw Killer, was found yesterday afternoon, brutally shot to death in her home. Authorities are not revealing much about Miss Tuck's death, but it's clear that something strange is happening in Mayfield. More information regarding Miss Tuck's death will be available as soon as possible. Back to you, Daniel."

Before Daniel Paxton's rather unattractive face could be shown once again, Amanda turned the television off, and turned to face John. "You see?" she whispered wetly. "I was not lying to you, John."

John's eyes were bright, and, as Amanda watched, a few fat tears leaked out of them. His expression was now one of the most utmost sorrow, and, upon seeing it, Amanda felt her heart break. He stared at her helplessly, and Amanda knew that, despite her misgivings, she had to go on.

"Jill couldn't have written on the back of the photo," she stammered, moving forward. Her voice wavered pathetically, as she produced the photograph once more. She held it, back facing John, and she went on: "Because she was already dead when this was written."

"What are you saying?" John croaked, taking the photograph from his tearful apprentice.

Amanda swallowed. "Who gave you the other note, John? The one that Jill supposedly wrote to tell us she was handing us in?"

John's eyes widened, as he processed this. "Mark," he realized.

Amanda nodded solemnly.

**XxX**

All day yesterday, a storm had been pending. The sky had looked beaten, bruised, and swollen.

Now, the next day, the storm broke with no warning other than a single clap of thunder, so loud that it seemed to shake the entire hospital. Rain fell suddenly and heavily like a giant tent collapsing with a _whoosh _and a roar.

Perez couldn't see the storm because the curtain around the other (unused) bed blocked her view of the window. But she could hear the thunder and see the brilliant flashes of lightning. The fat raindrops pounded on the unseen windowpane with the force of drumbeats.

She ate a filling breakfast of cereal, toast, juice, and a sweet roll, and then settled down to listen to the raging storm.

The weather seemed to match her mood. Today was a very dismal day indeed. Erickson's family had arrived to pull his life support, and, despite him being her boss for five years, Perez was not allowed to be there. Instead, she had to begin her physical therapy, which would aid her to be able to walk again. She'd gotten the all-clear about the same time Strahm had gotten his- and she had been over the moon at first. She would be able to walk.

Today, however, she did not want to go to physical therapy. She wanted to be there for Erickson, one last time.

Two orderlies arrived at her door with a wheeled stretcher. The first one, who was a middle-aged man with receding brown hair, said, in a kindly voice, "We're here to take you down to the physical therapy department, Agent Perez."

Perez sighed. "Okay."

The first orderly moved into the room, the second not too far behind. Both were dressed in white clothing, and both seemed nice enough. The second orderly was a man in his mid twenties, and was completely bald. He had an earring in one ear, and gave the impression that he could be quite intimidating when he wished to be. He introduced himself as Carl Parker, and the other was Patrick Wild.

They said very little, but their presence was somehow comforting; Perez did not want to be alone, with only her thoughts for company. She allowed the orderlies to place her upon the stretcher, making only a small sound of pain when her legs bumped the stretcher. "Sorry," Patrick apologized, sounding genuine. Once Perez was secure, the two orderlies wheeled her from her room, only to be met by two more orderlies, Zep Hindle and Keith O'Hara, who were accompanying another man in a stretcher. Perez recognized the man at once.

"Peter!" she cried, and she could not help the note of intimacy that came with her love's name. She flushed, slightly embarrassed, but the orderlies appeared not to have noticed. Strahm smiled when he saw Perez. Though he still looked slightly sick, the smile was nevertheless dazzling.

"Lindsey," he whispered, and, as the orderlies began to wheel them down to the physical therapy department, he took her hand in his. They were being wheeled side-by-side, and for that, Perez was grateful. Though she was still saddened at the thought of Erickson leaving them forever, she was glad Strahm was by her side.

They said no more, but merely took comfort in each other's presence, as the orderlies wheeled them into an elevator, getting out on the first floor, which was where the PT department was. There, they turned the two FBI agents over to Alicia Atkinson and Paul Browning, the two specially trained therapists who were in charge of the hospital's PT program.

Alicia Atkinson was a small, dark, slightly birdlike woman brimming with energy and enthusiasm. She greeted Perez enthusiastically, pecking her on the cheek lightly. She then proceeded to ease Perez off of her stretcher. Perez was slightly alarmed at first, and gripped Alicia's sleeve for support, but she needn't have. Alicia didn't let Perez fall. She merely stood the FBI agent up, making her lean against a rail, holding her around the waist. Perez swayed slightly, but was delighted to discover that she could at least stand. After a few moments, Alicia even went so far as to remove her support from Perez entirely- and there was no noticeable difference.

Paul Browning was also nice. He was tall, taller than Strahm, and had hair the colour of coal. He was not quite as enthusiastic as Alicia, but that was perfectly fine with Strahm. Though he had only just met the man, Strahm found that he liked Paul already. Strahm was also eased out of his stretcher, and there was no pain at all- which Strahm was delighted to discover. Paul gripped Strahm under the armpits, and stood him upright with no problems at all. Paul was very strong. "Do you need support?" Paul inquired, once Strahm was upright. Though he swayed a little, Strahm felt that he did not need help. He shook his head no, and Paul moved his arms away from Peter Strahm.

The two therapists stood back and gazed at the two FBI agents with something close to reverence. Smiles spilt across their faces, as they watched the couple gain control of their footing, eventually ceasing the swaying.

They then guided the two FBI agents through half an hour's worth of exercises, using a variety of machines and modified gym equipment that gave a workout to every muscle group. There was nothing in the least strenuous about it; a healthy person would have found it laughably easy. "For your first couple of visits," Alicia said, addressing both Strahm and Perez, "we'll concentrate primarily on passive exercises." But, at the end of the half hour, both Strahm and Perez were exhausted and achy. Following the exercise, both were given a massage that made them feel as though they were a loose collection of disjointed bones and ligaments. After the massage, there was a session in the whirlpool. Both Paul and Alicia assured the two agents that the angry weals on their legs were now healed enough to get in. The hot, swirling water made them both feel as though they were nothing but mere _liquid. _

After that, they were permitted to take a shower in a stall that had handrails and seats for invalids. Perez would have preferred that she and Strahm shower together, but of course, such a thing would not be allowed in a hospital.

The glorious feeling and scent of soap, hot water, and steam was so wonderful, so _exquisite, _that taking a shower seemed deliciously sinful.

Alicia dried Perez's long, curly hair with an electric blower while she sat in front of a dressing table mirror. It was the first time she had looked in a mirror since the day she had embarked on the near-suicidal Jigsaw raid, and she was pleasantly surprised to see that, after everything she had been through, how _normal _she looked. No doubt Strahm would look better as well.

Perez considered her appearance in the mirror briefly, before she turned to her therapist. "Can I ask you something?" she asked.

"Sure."

"Why are we going into therapy so quickly after the accident?"

Alicia looked surprised, but quickly recovered herself. "Blisters heal very quickly, Agent Perez. The hospital knows you and Agent Strahm work for the Federal Bureau of Investigations, and we'd like to get you back to your jobs as quickly as possible. Since your legs are healing, why wait?" She smiled brightly at Perez, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.

Perez returned the smile. "Yeah, I suppose so."

Once she was dressed in a fresh hospital gown, she got onto her stretcher (not needing any assistance this time), and Alicia wheeled her into the PT department's waiting room. "Patrick and Carl will be along shortly," she assured Perez, before leaving the room.

Perez gazed around the room interestedly. The walls were bright, and had numerous paintings on the walls. Though Perez didn't have the faintest idea of what they were supposed to be, she enjoyed them nevertheless.

There was only one downside to the waiting room- Strahm wasn't there. Perez guessed that his orderlies, Zep and Keith, had arrived for him early. That was really too bad, she thought, settling back onto her stretcher contentedly, she had really wanted to see how he had cleaned up.

Drowsy, she closed her eyes and yawned.

"Hello, Agent Perez."

Perez opened her eyes and smiled at her two orderlies. It had been Carl who had spoken to her, and he returned her smile, his eyes crinkling up pleasantly in the corners. "Time to go," Patrick announced, and the two of them began to wheel Perez back to her room.

**XxX**

At precisely eleven fifty –three AM, Special Agent Daniel Erickson's life support was cut, and another life was taken into Death's loving embrace.

**XxX**

"What are you going to do?" Amanda whispered, her face streaked with tears. John raised his eyes to hers. They were not bright with tears as they had been before, but they appeared hollow. Empty. "He's _using _her."

"I know," John said quietly. He paused. "It's time to play a game."


	22. Setting into motion

**September 30****th****, 1997- Setting into motion. **

Not long after Perez woke, a nurse arrived and helped her into a shower. Refreshed, Perez changed into the standard hospital gown that had been laid out for her. The water had been cool, and had jolted the FBI agent from whatever clutches sleep might have had over her. The nurse's aide took the gown Perez had worn yesterday away, presumably to be cleaned.

Breakfast was larger this morning than it had been yesterday. Perez ate every bite of it and, to her surprise, was still hungry afterwards.

Carl came to her room a few minutes after the nurse had cleared away Perez's crockery. He was holding a small, square-shaped piece of paper, which he quickly tucked into his breast pocket. "How are you today, Agent Perez?" he asked pleasantly, stopping at the end of her bed.

Perez smiled at him. "Fine, thanks."

Carl nodded, more to himself than to Perez. "That's good to hear." His right hand fluttered up to his breast pocket, where it hovered, hesitant, for a moment, before his long fingers pulled out the piece of paper again. "Say, Agent Perez," he began, seeming less distracted than he had just a few moments ago, "Do you feel up to exercising your legs a little, before Patrick and I take you down to the PT department?"

Perez was surprised. "Yes, of course." Anything to get her legs healed as quickly as possible. Though she liked Carl, Patrick and Alicia very much, she did not care much for the hospital- in a way, it was very much like being in a cage.

Carl moved closer to her bed and held his arms out to her. Perez wondered why he was alone, before swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, where they hung for a moment, before she lowered them to the ground. She had no problems accomplishing that, yet she was not sure if she could walk- all of her exercises yesterday had focused on strengthening her muscles- she had not actually needed to walk for any of them. "Just hold onto me," Carl said, apparently sensing her distress. "You'll be quite all right, Agent Perez; I've got you. I'll walk you nice and slow to the other side of the room."

Perez was shaky and hesitant at first, but with each step, she gained more self-assurance and was gradually able to move faster. She certainly wasn't ready to challenge anyone to a footrace just yet- but she could feel the muscles flexing in her legs, and she had a pleasant, animal sense of being whole and functional. She was confident that she would spring back to health faster than Lawrence Gordon thought, and would be discharged from the hospital well ahead of schedule. Carl thought so, too- he told her that he had come alone because he had thought that it would do Perez some good to prepare for her second physical therapy session- which would apparently be increasing her walking skills.

Perez ended up walking around her room several times, before her legs seemed to liquefy beneath her. Carl went to help her, but Perez held a hand up- a hand that no longer appeared thin and claw-like, she noted with some delight. "Wait. Let me go around a few more times," she said, and Carl sighed.

"You shouldn't over-tax yourself, Agent Perez."

"I can handle it. It's no strain."

"Are you sure?"

Perez smiled thinly. "I'm a member of the FBI, Carl. I'm meant to be tough."

"Okay," Carl said, relenting. He walked Perez around the room once more, and they were about to start another round when the door opened. Perez turned, interested in who might be visiting her; she half-hoped that it was Strahm at the door.

It was not him, she saw with some disappointment, but a nurse. She was tall, with red hair that flickered like a flame whenever she moved. In her arms, she held several freshly-ironed hospital gowns, which she gave to Carl, who took them without complaint. Perez was momentarily left standing alone, until the nurse took her arm and led her back to her bed, which Perez slipped into rather reluctantly. She wanted to keep walking- she wanted to keep _healing. _Lying in bed would do absolutely nothing for her, and she wondered why she had to lie down when she was fully capable of doing other things, without pain.

"Hungry?" the nurse asked her now.

"Yes."

"Good. You've got to put some flesh on your bones. I'll bring you something to eat."

The nurse and Carl left the room soon after, without another word.

Though she was undoubtedly glad she was being put through therapy so quickly, Perez couldn't help but wonder if recovery was meant to take its time. She knew very little of the medical world, but she didn't think that she should be put through therapy so hastily- it was almost as if they were trying to get rid of her and Strahm. Oh, she didn't WANT to be the hospital, that was for certain- but nor did she want a hasty treatment, especially if there could be severe consequences.

Perhaps she was just being paranoid, but it felt almost as if everything was being rushed, as if she and Strahm were being prepared. She hadn't the faintest idea what they might be preparing _for_, but it had to be something major- otherwise, why would the hospital rush them so?

Perez cast these thoughts aside when the nurse and an orderly- Zep, she thought his name was- returned with a positively humungous platter of food- though it was easily big enough for a grown man, Perez knew she could eat it all.

The nurse got one of those irritating plastic table substitutes and swung it over Perez's lap, placing the platter upon it gently. Perez rather thought that the table trembled slightly, and wondered what it would feel like to wear the food in front of her. Just to be on the safe side, she adjusted her legs so that her knees were supporting the table.

Seeing this, the nurse smiled, amused by Perez's concern. "It's really quite stable," she assured the FBI agent, while Zep turned on the television set, and Perez expected to see that grotesque puppet's face on the screen, and she let out a sigh of relief when she saw that it was but a simple romantic comedy. She'd seen the movie before, but it was one of those movies you could watch over and over again without getting bored, and so, she settled back to watch it yet again.

The nurse left, with Zep at her heels. They paused only at the door, where they inquired as to whether Perez would like the door to be closed. Perez nodded- a fast, jerky bob, and the door shut with a snap.

She sighed and began to eat the humungous platter, wishing she could share it with Strahm.

**XxX**

John supervised his three apprentices construct his latest series of tests with a critical eye. He was not merely watching how the traps were being constructed, but rather, he was watching how the three interacted with one another. Melanie seemed to admire Hoffman, and gazed at him with wide eyes, seeming enthralled with everything he did. John noticed that she was not doing as much as she should be doing, but he did not inform her so. If he did so, then Hoffman may suspect that he, John Kramer, knew what the former detective was up to. John couldn't allow that to happen. So he allowed Melanie to cling to Hoffman, rather like a parasite. It was a wonder that he had not tired of her already.

If Amanda had not told him the truth, John would not have seen anything out of place in the scene before him. Hoffman acted the way he usually did- cool, calm, unquestioning of John's will. The act he was putting on was amazing. John saw no deception in the apprentices' eyes, yet he knew it was there. Hoffman certainly knew how to act.

Amanda herself was acting rather hostile towards the other two apprentices, yet that was not out of the ordinary. She had never liked Hoffman, and she seemed to regard Melanie as a pest, even though she knew that the poor woman was being manipulated. Then again, this was _Amanda. _She disliked even Jill tuck, whom had helped her numerous times when heroin had run her life. In other words, she disliked all those who John might favour more than Amanda herself.

John let out a long rush of air he had not realized he'd been holding. He was tense, tense all over- it was as if his muscles had been replaced by cool, sleek metal- metal that could not be bended in any way. The muscles in his arms felt taut and erect, and they ached dully. No matter how much he tried to relax, John found he could not, and he felt frustrated with himself. What if Hoffman were to notice John's sudden agitation? John supposed he could always reply that he was simply anxious to see the results of the test he had planned- the series of tests planned for Special Agent Peter Strahm. Hoffman might believe that, because he harboured an intense dislike of the somewhat aggressive FBI agent.

Yes, John would use that excuse should Hoffman (or Melanie, for that matter) inquire as to why John was suddenly so tense, so anxious.

With an effort, he brought himself out of his reverie, and saw that the room's trap was almost complete. The trap consisted of several chains, which were designed to hold a person aloft. Numerous hoses were pointed at where the person was going to be, at various points of their body. It would be an excellent trap, and would cause great pain if the person was not freed in time.

John attempted a smile, and could not manage it. Though he was undoubtedly pleased that the trap was nearly finished, grief dominated all other emotions. His ex-wife was dead. No more would he be able to see her, or hear her pretty voice say his name. There was no escape in sleep, either- all of his dreams depicted Jill's corpse being strung up like a flag, her arms and legs crudely twisted to curl around the length of the pole, and her head impaled on the very top of the pole, her eyes wide with fright, and her mouth opened in a permanent scream.

Those dreams were absolutely terrifying.

John watched as Hoffman re-entered the room (When had he left? John hadn't even seen him leave), pushing a wheelbarrow. Inside the wheelbarrow was a large man, in his early forties, dark-skinned, dressed in flannelette pyjamas. Unlike Agents Perez, Strahm, and Erickson, SWAT commander Daniel Rigg had never been taken to a hospital, for the simple reason he was not as damaged as the others. He had, of course, breathed in the mustard gas, but he had contracted any blisters, and over time, his health had been restored. Of course, as well as any person's health can be while under the constant influence of drugs, to keep him immobile but aware. John couldn't have him escaping. "Which room?" Hoffman now asked his mentor, his expression perfectly neutral. John suppressed another coughing fit, sure that he would be bringing up blood soon- his fits were that violent.

"Second," he finally managed to wheeze, desperately needing his aspirator, which Hoffman got for him. John could not help but peer at the other man's hands, expecting to see bloodstains. He was disappointed when he saw that Hoffman's hands bore none. They were covered in oil, but that was to be expected- the trap he had just been fixing required numerous amounts of oil.

Hoffman nodded and began pushing the wheelbarrow back the way he had just come. John knew that Hoffman would most likely just dump the body onto the ground, until either Amanda or Melanie got around to placing it into the trap. Hoffman was brutal- John had known this the moment he had decided to pursue the man who had killed his sister's murderer, by mimicking one of John's creations. Unlike John's devices, however, there was no possible way to escape from the trap- Hoffman had rigged it so that even if Baxter were to crush his hands, the pendulum would continue to cut through his body, effectively destroying that particular person.

John sighed. It had been a mistake to make Hoffman join his cause. But he would fix that soon. Very, very soon.

**XxX**

Zep Hindle walked the hallways of Saint Eustace hospital at a brisk, purposeful pace. He was not on duty at present; he had to make a rather important phone call.

As he passed the reception desk, he briefly considered using the hospital phone, but dismissed that idea almost instantly. He couldn't use the hospital phone. What, then? He could use his cellular phone, but the act he was about to perform may implicate him later on, and he _needed _this job. He couldn't fuck things up for himself by getting into trouble with the police.

He supposed he could use a public pay phone- no-one would be able to trace him that way, and he could pass the message on effectively. Yes, a pay phone seemed the best idea at present.

Excited by the idea, Zep nearly knocked down an elderly lady in his haste. He would have apologized, if he'd trusted his voice. But he was not dressed in his orderly whites, he was dressed in a pair of jeans and a heavy black jacket with the collar pulled up, though he was supposed to be dressed as an orderly. He looked quite different in darker clothes, but his voice would give him away, should he be stupid enough to speak.

So he brushed past the elderly woman rudely, and made his way to the front door of the hospital, where it was more likely that he would be recognized as a patient and not as an orderly. He made sure to avert his eyes from other orderlies that he knew, and was careful not to look out of place, though the jacket was perhaps more conspicuous than he would have liked.

When he was at last out of the bustling hospital, he slipped into the crowd, intending to get as far away from the hospital as he could possibly could before making the call. The more precautions he took, the less likely it was that someone would catch him.

He did not have to walk for very long. Just ten minutes after leaving the hospital, he found a suitable pay phone, well out of sight from the hospital, and in a particularly noisy part of the city, so that if anyone were to try and track him, it would be that much harder to do so.

Stifling a cough with one gloved hand, Zep reached into his pocket and pulled out the scrap of paper he had found in the Jigsaw doll sitting on the waiting chairs a few days ago. The paper bore no names, but merely a series of eight numbers that Zep so desperately needed. If he didn't make this call, then Jigsaw and his helpers would kill him.

Smoothing the wrinkled paper on the cool metal case that supported a heavy phonebook, Zep reached into his pocket for a second time and pulled out several small coins, which, after inspecting the price of a local call, were slipped into the coin slot. He picked up the phone, and, with slightly trembling hands, punched in the eight numbers.

While the phone was ringing, Zep held his breath, nervous.

At last, someone answered, and the orderly had to refrain from squeaking in fright, for the voice was raspy, aged, and undoubtedly chilling, and it was a voice Zep knew quite well. It was the voice of the Jigsaw Killer.

"They are ready?"

Zep swallowed, hating himself immensely for what he was about to do. "Yes."

"Both of them?"

"Yes."

The man on the other end of the phone hung up abruptly, and Zep was momentarily left listening to static, before he lowered the earpiece back to its' rack. He sighed and snatched at the piece of paper, thinking of ripping it into minuscule pieces, but he then realized that that was probably a stupid idea.

He settled for squeezing the paper into a rough ball, and lobbing it into the closest bin, where it would never be found.

He then began the short walk back to the hospital, the knowledge of what he had just done weighing heavily on his mind.

**XxX**

Lunch came so soon after the huge platter that Perez couldn't eat everything, but she ate enough to win the nurse's approval.

An hour later, she was taken downstairs for another physical therapy session with Alicia Atkinson. A new pair of orderlies came for her, and she was disappointed to see that Strahm and his pair of orderlies had already departed. She would have liked to hold his hand again- she wanted the comforting feel of her hand wrapped in his. She wanted to be comforted, because she still felt as though something wasn't quite right, and it unsettled her immensely.

The therapy session with Alicia Atkinson was more strenuous than it had been yesterday, because, just as Carl had said, they were practising their walking skills. Perez was pleased to see that Strahm appeared to have had just as much preparation as she had had. He walked with ease, and appeared confident- the broad smile on his face said it all.

Inspired by Strahm's success, Perez threw herself into the session with more enthusiasm than before, and she found that she was just as good, if not better, than her partner. The two shared congratulatory grins before Alicia and Paul moved them on to slightly more difficult tasks.

Though the two FBI agents were stronger than they had been before, at the end of the session, both were covered in a generous layer of perspiration, and their clothes clung to their bodies, very much like a second skin. Perez could not help the faint blush that warmed her cheeks when she saw Strahm- the white shirt he had been wearing may as well have been transparent.

The massage felt even better this time, and Perez could not help the satisfied sigh that escaped her. She felt as if she were floating, especially when she entered the whirlpool, and then the shower. The hot water soothed her aching body, and she honestly felt as though she could stay in there forever.

When she got back to her room from the PT department, she got into bed with little effort. It was a sign of how much she had improved over the last week; at the beginning, she could barely bring herself to sit up, and now, she could walk about like any normal person. She wondered if she was going to be discharged soon- she hoped so.

Had she had any idea what was awaiting her, she might have thought differently.

**XxX**

John tucked the cellular phone into his pocket, knowing that two of his three apprentices (Hoffman still being in the other room with Rigg) were very aware of his brief exchange with Zep Hindle. He had had to blackmail the man into keeping an eye on Agents Strahm and Perez, so he would know when they were ready to be tested. Had John still been completely clueless about Mark Hoffman, he might have asked him to go and keep an eye on the FBI agents. John no longer trusted Hoffman to do such a thing, and Amanda was obviously out of the question, seeing as she was now identified as his apprentice. He did not want Melanie to do it, because he had to watch her, watch her reactions to the many things Mark Hoffman said and did.

Zep was an obvious choice; John had been tended by the orderly before, and knew that he would be seeing at least one of the agents in the time they took to recover. So John had threatened to kill Zep should he not follow the rules and notify him when the agents were ready to be tested.

He now turned to Amanda and Melanie. "It's time to get Agent Strahm and Agent Perez from the hospital," he said. They nodded, moving towards the door, obviously intending to retrieve the pig masks to hide their identity from their victims, and anyone else who happened across them.

When Melanie was close enough, John took hold of her wrist. She stopped, surprised. "What is it, John?"

He glanced around surreptitiously, making sure Hoffman was not in earshot. When he was satisfied that there would be no interruptions, he beckoned Melanie closer. Keeping his voice low, he said, "I have something for you."

Her eyes were wide with questions, but she said nothing, for which John was thankful. He braced himself, before he lifted his frail body from the wheelchair, and he took what he had been sitting on for the entire day. He had been looking for an opportunity to present it to his newest apprentice ever since he had discovered what Hoffman was doing.

It was a small package, the sort that would not look out of place at a postal office. He held it out to Melanie with slightly trembling hands, and she took it from him, the questioning look on her face now more pronounced than ever. "When the time is right," he murmured, "you'll know what to do."

Melanie nodded, placing the package into one of the deep pockets that the robe housed, and John was sure that she would know what to do when the time arose. She was the smartest out of the original four, after all.

He watched her leave the room.

**XxX**

When Perez awoke, her room was playing host to a large party of shadows. She was momentarily confused, until she realized that she must have fallen asleep after the therapy and the hot shower. She wasn't surprised.

Outside, the sun had just crested the buildings surrounding the hospital; although true sunset was still some time away, the cloud-darkened day was already slouching toward evening. Perez yawned, sat up, wiped at her matted eyes with the back of one hand- a hand that was healing most impressively. The angry scars had faded, and they were hard to see.

According to the nightstand clock, it was four-thirty.

The second bed in her room still had the curtains drawn. This bothered Perez. Perhaps it was silly, but she had a feeling that something was behind the curtain. Something of malevolent intent.

She slipped out of bed and stood in the middle of the room, staring at the curtain, which fluttered ominously. She wanted to see what was behind it, but she felt strangely nude approaching it without some sort of weapon. So she crept back to her bed and investigated her bedside table for something she could use as a makeshift weapon. Aside from a bedside lamp, there was nothing that could really be used as a weapon, and Perez was not going to risk breaking the pretty lamp just to satisfy her own paranoid delusions.

She would just have to go without a weapon. Chances were there was nothing there anyway.

So she made her way over to the other bed, her muscles tense with anticipation. The curtain fluttered again, though there was no breeze.

Perez paused before the curtain, counting to three before she ripped the curtain open, to reveal-

Nothing. Nothing was there.

Perez sighed, irritated with herself. She turned-

A flash of black crimson. A jolt of pain, as the point of the needle sunk deep into Lindsey Perez's skin, and then...

Lindsey Perez slumped downwards, the effects of the drug thrusting her into the strange world of unconsciousness almost immediately.

**XxX**

Peter Strahm was watching television, another one of those shitty movies that bored everyone but teenage girls to tears. He wasn't too sure what it was called, but he watched it nevertheless, hoping that the numbing effects the movie had on his brain might eventually put him to sleep. The PT session had worn him out, and although his body was desperate for sleep, his mind was still excruciatingly alert.

He hated feeling like that. It really pissed him off.

He sighed and watched television for another fifteen minutes, before he changed the channel. Perhaps watching some other boring movie would do the job, because whatever the hell he had been watching before certainly hadn't.

When he found a suitably boring movie, he settled back to watch it, wondering if he should ask for some sleeping pills.

His door creaked. Strahm frowned and kept his eyes on the television, not wanting to be bothered by an orderly or nurse. Certainly not Lawrence Gordon.

The door creaked again. Strahm gritted his teeth, his temper rising. Why could those damn nurses not leave him alone to watch some goddamn movie?

The door creaked again. Pissed off, Strahm turned his head, opening his mouth to shout obscenities at whoever was trying to disturb him.

He didn't get quite that far. He managed a small squeak of surprise before something was thrust onto his face, blocking off both his nose and his mouth, effectively removing his only way of breathing. He writhed and clawed at the pillow, trying to rip it from his face, but whoever was holding was considerably stronger than him.

His chest began to burn, and he strained harder than ever, trying to suck in even a gasp of air.

The shadowy figure smothering Strahm sighed and brought out a hypodermic needle, its' contents a clear, water-like liquid. The point of the needle punctured Strahm's vein, and the liquid was injected into it, burning through with unnerving speed.

The figure removed the pillow from Strahm's face once it was sure he was unconscious, and tossed the needle into the bin.

Beneath the mask, Melanie grinned. "Shit happens," she whispered.


	23. Strahm's Trials

**October 1****st****, 1997- Strahm's Trials.**

An entire world hummed and bustled beyond the dark fortress that was the abandoned factory. The night that coveted the building seemed empty, as hollow as the vacant chambers of a cold, dead heart.

Sprawled awkwardly on the cold pavement, Peter Strahm did not move immediately when he first regained consciousness. His body was stiff, and ached something terrible. His throat was dry, and his eyes burned, as if he had not slept for days.

Groaning, Strahm forced himself into a sitting position, blinking rapidly. Shadows seemed to dance in and out of his peripheral vision, and it disorientated him. He sucked in deep breaths of the cool air, grimacing as he realized that there was a great throbbing pain above his left eye. He raised one hand to his face, and saw that it was clenched into a tight fist. His other hand was just the same. Evidently, he had been in that position for quite a while- his hands felt cold and dead- and it took a while for him to unclench. With considerable effort, he opened his right fist. There was nothing inside of it, he knew that much. Yet he longed for light, to see if his hands were as cold and dead as they felt.

Strahm got to his feet, swayed dizzily, and nearly fell over an object that had been on the blacktop beside him. He gingerly bent down and picked it up: a small, rectangular-shaped object, surprisingly heavy despite its' size. The singular act triggered something of a chain reaction; as soon as the object was picked up, an overhead light snapped on. It was positioned directly above a door, Strahm saw, and the light it cast was pure evil- sitting on its perch above the door, it rather looked like an eye, glaring down upon the FBI agent.

He was so startled by this that for a moment, Strahm's breath caught in his throat; then his heartbeat soared, and he let his breath out in a rush. Strahm considered the object in his hand: it was a tape player. A scrap of paper taped to the front of it screamed in bold, jerky script: 'PLAY ME.'

Strahm felt cold all over, as if he'd stepped into a shower of freezing water. The confusion dissipated abruptly, and Strahm's heartbeat accelerated again. He looked frantically left and right, searching for an object he may be able to utilize as a weapon. The room yielded none. Panicking, Strahm searched his pockets, and discovered, with dismay, that his cellular phone had been taken away, as had his handgun. Even his pen had been snatched away from him.

Gritting his teeth, Strahm reluctantly held the player up to the light, and pressed the button that would surely decide his fate. There was a moment of nothing but static, and then, the voice Strahm knew so well, yet had never actually heard in person, issued forth from the player:

"Hello, Agent Strahm. I want to play a game. Your obsession with catching me has robbed you of many things: your health, your position, even the life of your leader, Agent Erickson. But you have not given up, have you? You deliberately altered your appearance so you could take part in a raid that you were never supposed to attend, resulting in several lives being saved. Now we will see if you can overcome your obsession with catching me, and earn your salvation. There are three obstacles you must overcome, three tests you must complete. You all have something in common, and, when you discover what that is, everything will become clear. The clue to their order can be found over the rainbow. You have fifty minutes to complete your tests, and save the woman you love. If you do not reach her in time, words will not be able to describe her agony. Live or die, Agent Strahm? The choice is yours."

Strahm stared at the player for a moment, before the fiery anger consumed him. Enraged, he threw the player at the wall. "FUCK!"

But he had to go on, didn't he? If he didn't, then Perez would die. And Strahm could not allow that to happen.

He moved forward, the red glare of the light coveting him. He raised his hands in front of his face, and they appeared to be two dead things hanging from his wrists, pale and pathetic. They were also on the verge of curling into fists again.

Strahm felt oddly naked, as he crept towards the door, wondering what sort of macabre horrors were awaiting him. He pushed the heavy iron door experimentally. It didn't budge. Frustrated, Strahm took a step back, and he kicked the door viciously. He kicked it so hard that he rather thought that he might actually break his foot doing such a foolhardy act, if he kept it up, and he wondered sickly how much slower he would be if he had to hobble through this goddamned fortress.

Thankfully, the door eased open quickly enough, and Strahm needn't have worried about breaking his foot. The door didn't open very far, but Strahm simply pushed it open, and it gave way to a length of near-darkness that depicted a long hallway, with various objects piled up against the wall, leaving a clear walkway. Strahm stared at it for a moment, before moving his stiff and aching body forward, the pain in his head corkscrewing across his forehead. Strahm's mouth turned down in a pained grimace. He shuffled along the hallway as fast as he could, his gray-blue eyes alert and watchful. None of the objects piled up against the wall were suitable to use as a weapon. There wasn't even something like a pole there in amongst what Strahm soon realized were nothing more than cardboard boxes, compressed. He let out a frustrated sigh. He had hoped that he might find something of use.

He continued to move along the length of the hallway, moving at a greater speed, now that he was sure that there was nothing that he could use to his advantage. Jigsaw had obviously anticipated this. Who knew what else the madman had anticipated about Strahm?

He wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for, but, as the hallway came to an end, he saw that there was another door, identical to the one he had kicked open. On it, in red luminous paint, was a red spiral, obviously an indicator for Strahm.

The paint was still wet, Strahm discovered, as he touched the spiral tentatively, and he saw that his fingers came away every bit as red and luminous as the paint on the door.

He sucked in a deep breath, wiping the paint onto his trousers, before he opened the door to his first test.

**XxX**

Melanie was slumped at her desk, desperately trying to fight off drowsiness, but not having much luck in doing so. Her eyes burned, and shadows hung underneath them- she had not slept since her encounter with the injured woman. Sleep, though she wanted it very much, offered her no reprieve from the injured woman- she haunted the dreams of the young apprentice whenever she dared to close her eyes.

Melanie had considered going to John for help; but what could he do? He was a healer, yes, but not the kind she needed. She had also considered going to Hoffman, but had dismissed the idea almost as soon as she had thought of it- she didn't want him to think she was weak.

No, the only person who could deal with this was Melanie herself. Perhaps, when the chance arose, she would steal some sleeping pills from her home, the kind that allowed her to sleep without dreaming. Yes, that seemed the best course of action at present.

The corners of Melanie's mouth pulled up in a slight smile, and she slumped further onto her desk. A welcome breeze blew in through her window, ruffling her short, spiky hair slightly. Her smile grew, and the weight upon her eyelids seemed to intensify, until she had no choice but to lower them.

A puff of wind swirled around the new apprentice, much colder than its predecessor. Then calm returned, as if the dead night was trying to return to life but had managed only one shuddering breath. A single piece of wadded paper, swept up by that insufflations, clicked along the floor and scraped to a stop against Melanie's right shoe.

Her eyelids fluttered.

There was another puff of wind. The paper whirled away. The night was calm once again.

Something was happening. Melanie sense that these short-lived whiffs of wind had some malevolent source, ominous meaning.

Irrationally, she was sure that she was about to be crushed by a great weight. She opened her eyes and looked up at the ceiling, at the bleak and empty blackness of the crude, twisted metal that served as the ceiling. If something was descending toward her, Melanie could not see it.

The night exhaled once more. Harder this time. Its breath was sharp and dank.

Convinced that she had to get out of there- and fast- Melanie pushed away from the desk and staggered to her feet, unthinkingly leaving her firearm behind, sitting on the desktop.

The gust of wind died, and stillness reclaimed the night.

The wind rose again, and with it, this time, came an eerie whistling, barely audible, like the distant music of a flute made of some strange bone. Melanie was not so sure that she wasn't dreaming anymore- such a sound could not possibly exist in this life, in this world.

She pinched her thigh, twisting the skin almost cruelly. There was pain. She drew in a startled breath, biting at her lower lip. This was no dream. This was real.

The wind huffed again at her back, and the flutelike music, though barely audible and lacking a discernible melody, was haunting. It pierced her. It sharpened her fear.

Melanie became very aware of another presence in the room, could feel its eyes on her back. She swallowed tightly, and then turned around.

**XxX**

When Strahm opened the door, an overhead light flared into life, its weak, urine-coloured light throwing everything into sharp relief. The room was fairly large in size, and in the very heart of it, there was a large concrete slab. On this concrete slab lay a man, in his late twenties, naked except for the pair of filthy, tattered shorts that hung low on his hips. His eyes were closed, yet he appeared to be breathing. His arms lay stretched above his head, the wrists crossed, cuffed into place. Strahm saw that the man had been struggling against his bonds- the cuffs had obviously chafed against the man's skin, as there was dried blood present- and the FBI agent felt a surge of pity rush through him for this man. His legs were held in a similar position, yet they were not crossed as his wrists were, merely cuffed to the concrete slab. Strahm saw, with another surge of pity, that the cuffs had been cemented into the slab. There was no way that the man could escape by himself.

Leather straps were bound tightly around the man's breastbone and pelvic bone. Even at this distance, the FBI agent could see that the leather was digging into the man's skin, causing great discomfort. Chains were connected to these leather straps, and, as Strahm's eyes followed the length of these chains, appeared to wind into the walls, where suitably large gaps was present. Though Strahm peered into these gaps, he saw nothing within or beyond the bleak and empty blackness.

The man groaned loudly, and Strahm moved toward him now, to try and free the poor man. When his face came into view, Strahm frowned. He knew that face from somewhere, but he did not remember where from exactly. The man had long, shaggy hair, and the beginnings of a moustache. His hard, lean body glistened with sweat. He also had a tape recorder around his neck.

Strahm snatched at it, and, as he did so, the man's eyes fluttered open. They were a dull grey, and were bloodshot. "Help me," he slurred, straining against his bonds.

"Don't worry, I'll get you out of there," Strahm promised, his emotions a confusing tangle of sympathy, revulsion, and anger. Sighing, he pressed 'play' on the recorder. He waited only for a moment, yet it seemed to last an eternity, before Jigsaw's raspy voice answered him:

"Agent Strahm, your first test. The person in front of you is in desperate need of help. You view this man as a victim, yet he is not. He is the man who supplied the mustard gas, which ultimately led to the death of Agent Erickson, and rendered you and your partner temporarily crippled. Can you forgive this man for the injustice he has forced on you and your partner? Can you forgive him for murdering your leader? Now, you can choose to save this man, or you can walk away. However, if you choose to save him, you will give a sacrifice of your own. To release him from his bindings, you will have to reach into the tube situated into the slab of concrete before you, and retrieve the key that lies there. The mark of your forgiveness, and your sacrifice, is shown by the blood on your hands. Will you save this man, forgive him for all the injustice he has forced upon you? You have the tools that will save his life. Decide quickly, though. In sixty seconds, the choice will be made for you."

As the tape ended, Strahm tossed it aside, where it clattered noisily to the ground. The sympathy that had been swimming amongst revulsion dissipated, and the fiery rage that Peter Strahm was famous for portraying made itself known. His hands curled into tight fists, his nails digging into the soft flesh of his palm, and his face twisted to display the revulsion he felt. He could not believe that this bastard had helped the Jigsaw Killer, and had killed Erickson, and forced himself and Perez into hospital. The traitorous BASTARD!

The man saw Strahm's facial expression, and fat tears began to leak out of the corners of his eyes. "I didn't mean to!" He screamed.

"BULLSHIT!" Strahm roared back.

"I didn't have a choice!"

"YOU _ALWAYS _HAD A CHOICE, YOU FUCKING BASTARD!"

The man screamed again, but it was not in retaliation to Strahm. He was screaming because machinery was powering up, out of sight, but the sound itself was ominous, unnerving. The sound of grating metal pierced Strahm, and he could only watch as the chains attached to the leather straps began to be slowly drawn inward, pulling each end of the man's body with it. The man screamed again, and Strahm suddenly remembered who he was. He was the man who had fled to Erickson for help when the one other SWAT soldier had gotten shot through the eye, when they had raided the funeral parlour.

"PLEASE HELP ME!" The soldier wailed, the tears coming thick and fast now; it was as if there was a river cascading down his ruddy cheeks.

Strahm took another step back, his eyes cold. "I can't do that."

The man screamed again, as his body was slowly pulled in two different directions. "Please," he whispered. "Please, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please help me..."

Despite his anger, Strahm felt sympathy stir in him once again. The man before him was undoubtedly deserving of his fate, but Strahm was a member of the FBI. His purpose was to save people, and here he was, watching someone slowly being ripped in half. It felt _wrong. _

"_PLEASE!" _

"All-all right," Strahm mumbled. He dropped to his knees, where, sure enough, there was a tube, cemented into the slab, just as Jigsaw had said.

Strahm could see the key, all right. It was lying at the back of the tube, glinting faintly in the poor light.

Strahm swallowed. Between his outstretched hand and the key, there was a combination of frightening objects. Razor wire. Rusty nails. Shards of broken glass.

Strahm had to push his hand his hand through this if he wanted to save the traitorous bastard. Which he did.

So, ignoring the man's screams, the FBI agent pushed his hand tentatively into the mess. He grimaced, as razor wire bit into the soft flesh in between his pointer finger and his thumb.

"HURRY! PLEASE!"

Strahm looked up, and saw the digital clock that had been nailed into the wall. It read 42:09. "FUCK!" He shouted in exasperation, and shoved his hand deeper into the mess, his screams soon matching the man's, as his hand was slowly shredded. He had a flap of skin hanging from his palm, and, as he continued to reach forward, felt the cruel edge of glass catch on it. Strahm wailed in almost complete synchronization with the man, as the glass peeled the flap of skin away.

Finally, thankfully, he felt his bloodied fingers close around the key. Letting a slight smile of triumph cross his face, he proceeded to pull his arm back through the death maze. It didn't hurt nearly as much as it had going in. His hand felt curiously numb, as he pulled his partially-mutilated arm out of the tube. The key, which had been a golden colour, was now crimson with Strahm's blood.

The man screamed again, and Strahm leapt up, preparing to free the man from his trap, but, even as he moved closer, he found that he was too late. The chains continued to pull the man's body in two different directions, and, as Strahm watched in horror, the skin of his belly began to rip. The man wailed again, but it was cut-off halfway; with a sudden jolt, the chains ripped the man in two. Bones snapped. Skin tore. Veins burst. Innards fell from their rightful place, to rest on the concrete slab. Part of an intestine hung absurdly from the man's body, and droplets of blood dripped from it, and arced towards the ground. The man's head dropped down onto his chest, blood dripping from his mouth.

Strahm's stomach heaved, and the key slipped from his hand. He did not bother to pick it up- what use was there for it now?

He was about to move on- there was a ladder at the other end of the room, with an arrow pointing upwards on the wall behind it- when he noticed the tattoo. It was small, very easy to miss, and was on the back of the dead man's neck, in red ink. Strahm moved closer, focusing only on that small number, and not on the carnage that was below it, and frowned. The number inscribed on the dead man's neck was 1.

**XxX**

Amanda moved away from the monitors and approached her mentor, who looked rather ill. He held the aspirator over his mouth, and his body shuddered frequently. If he was not sitting in his wheelchair, Amanda was sure that he would have fallen over by now. Letting concern wash over her face, she dropped to her knees in front of John, and placed her hands on his thin knees. "You okay?" she asked, watching him intently. John nodded slowly and lowered the aspirator.

"You have news?" he croaked, and Amanda nodded.

"He's completed his first test. The soldier is dead."

John nodded again and put the aspirator to his mouth again. Amanda tried to read the thoughts behind those pale, watery eyes of his, but she simply couldn't. Like Hoffman, John was very good at hiding his emotions when the need arose.

She snuck a glance at the former detective, who was watching the monitors intently. Since he had made no secret of his dislike for Peter Strahm, Amanda knew what he wished for: that Strahm failed his trial and be locked in with the four of them. Hoffman would undoubtedly kill the man as soon as he failed his trail, because that's the sort of person he was, wasn't he? He was a murderer.

Hoffman abruptly turned around, and met Amanda's gaze. She recoiled. His eyes were bright, furious, and he smiled cruelly at her.

**XxX**

She was staring at the very same woman who had haunted her dreams for the past three days. She stood in front of Melanie, her expression still one of the utmost sorrow. The shirt Melanie had seen her in previously was now crimson- the lovely white had all but disappeared. Her shorts were still pale blue, the material making soft sounds as the woman moved closer to Melanie.

Melanie wanted to move, of course she did, but it was as if she was paralysed- she was unable to move, and she could only stare in horror as the dead woman approached.

Her dark eyes stared soulfully at the new apprentice, and, just as before, a tear squeezed from the corner of her left eye. There was just one difference between the dead woman's previous visit and this one.

The tear was dark, bloody.

Melanie's fear broke through the spell the corpse seemed to have over her. She took a step back. Her own green eyes were wide with fright. "What the _fuck _do you want with me?" she asked, her voice trembling.

The corpse did not answer, but merely stared at Melanie, another tear sliding down her agonized face.

Melanie took another step back. She closed her eyes, silently counted to ten, and opened her eyes, expecting the corpse to be gone. It wasn't, although it hadn't moved any closer.

Perhaps she, Melanie Dwyer, was going insane. It seemed like a ludicrous idea, though not entirely unbelievable, after everything she had gone through.

If she was insane, then her hallucinations could not hurt her, because they were just that- hallucinations.

"Am I going crazy?" she asked, calmer. The corpse shook her head, her hair whipping from side to side daintily, despite parts of it being stained with blood.

"So you're real." It wasn't a question. The corpse nodded again.

"Are you...a ghost?" It was the first thing Melanie could think of to ask, ridiculous as it was. There were no such things as ghosts.

But, to her bewilderment, the dead woman nodded. Melanie was quite frightened by this stage; she let out a small whimper.

"What do you want?"

The dead woman opened her mouth as though she were going to speak. She face was furrowed in concentration, but although her mouth moved, no sound came out.

Melanie's frustration mirrored the spirit's. She, as bad as it may have been for her mental health, desperately wanted to unravel the mystery that the dead woman presented, and, when it was unable to tell her what exactly it wanted with her, Melanie's temper began to rise.

"Tell me, damn it!"

The dead woman's hand fluttered upwards like a startled bird, blood dripping off of it, and pointed at a newspaper clipping that lay on Melanie's desk, although Melanie herself was sure she had never seen it there before. It was yellowed with age, yet the words were still distinguishable:

DETECTIVE'S SISTER LAID TO REST.

Below the bold script was a photo of Detective Lieutenant Mark Hoffman, standing in front of a tombstone.

Melanie stared at this photograph for a moment, and then turned back to the spirit. "I don't understand," she admitted.

The dead woman's hand drifted back to her side, and she stared at the apprentice sadly, before opening her mouth once again. Melanie stared at the spirit intently, knowing that whatever it had to say was something of great importance.

After several agonizing moments, the dead woman managed it. The words were no louder than a whisper, barely audible, sounding very much like the flutelike music Melanie had heard before- unmelodic, sorrowful.

"I came...to...warn you..."

**XxX**

Once Strahm had hauled himself up the ladder with considerable effort (the numbness in his hand had faded, and pain had replaced it), he continued down a dark hallway, led only by the splashes of red luminous paint that looked very much like blood. He kept his eyes peeled for any indicator that signified his second test. Jigsaw had said there were three tests to take, and he desperately wanted to complete them so he could reach Perez, and hold her close.

Nothing lined the hallway walls this time, and, while that should have comforted the FBI agent, it did not.

The walls began to spin, and Strahm found he had to stop. He was dizzy because of the profound blood loss in his hand, he was sure of it. He did not sit down, however; he merely ripped some material from the pyjamas he was wearing and wrapped his bleeding hand, being careful not to wrap it too tightly. If he did that, it would only cause him greater pain.

Once he was satisfied with his handiwork, he continued to move along the hallway, moving at a faster pace than before- he was running out of time. He couldn't fuck around.

He heard agonized screams coming from up ahead. He moved faster, anxious to get his second test over and done with. His heart fluttered frantically within his chest, as he broke into a run, holding his injured arm against his chest protectively.

The door was just up ahead, and instead of a gigantic red spiral being painted onto it, there was his surname: STRAHM.

Strahm did not have time to ponder the odd indicator- he simply barrelled through the door. When he pushed it open, the first thing he saw was the tall black man, standing on top of some kind of platform. Strahm saw that the platform consisted of two pieces of metal, crudely twisted and bent. Underneath these pieces of metal were several hinges. The pieces of metal were designed to collapse. And underneath the platform was a device, looking rather like a gigantic mulcher.

Strahm swallowed. He could now see who the tall, black man was- SWAT commander Daniel Rigg. Even though the only time Strahm had met him was while he was tricking him, he liked Rigg, and felt that the man did not deserve to die, no matter what atrocity he had committed.

"Oh, god..." he murmured. Rigg seemed to hear him, and awkwardly twisted his head in Strahm's direction.

"HELP ME!" he screamed.

Strahm opened his mouth to reply, but, after seeing the digital clock on the wall (it now read 15:02), moved forward to take the tape recorder that awaited him. It sat in the corner of the room, a tiny black affair, seemingly harmless, yet it invoked a deep sense of terror in the FBI agent. He knew the process by now.

"Hello, Agent Strahm. This game involves the simple decision to either allow the man before you to live...or die. Forgiveness is all that separated Officer Rigg from his freedom when he encountered us in the funeral parlour. He chose vengeance, and here he stands. Agent Strahm, will _you _be able to do what Officer Rigg was unable to? Will you be able to forgive? There is a key in this room, and it represents Officer Rigg's life, and your forgiveness. However, to obtain it, you will need to open the cage it is contained in. Forgiveness always demands sacrifice. Will you be willing to sacrifice part of yourself, to forgive me? Or will you continue the cycle of vengeance? You have thirty seconds to decide. Let the game begin."

Another digital clock, positioned above Rigg's head, began to count down from thirty. Beneath the SWAT commanders' feet, the blades began to rotate.

Strahm stared at the recorder, his eyes wide with shock. Rigg had never been to the hospital. He had been in Jigsaw's care.

"Hey! _HEY!_"

Strahm looked up, to see a panicking Rigg staring down at him. "DO _SOMETHING!" _he screamed.

Strahm scanned the room frantically, looking for the cage that Jigsaw had spoken of, and spied it, welded onto the side of the gigantic mulcher. "I'll get you out of there!" he shouted, sprinting towards the cage- he had only twenty seconds left now.

The cage was a complicated device, and, just as Jigsaw had said, there was a barrier preventing Strahm from simply taking the key. However, in front of the barrier were two buttons. Strahm guessed that he had to press them to obtain the key. Tentatively, he raised his injured hand and moved it forward, so that it rested snugly in the small space between barrier and key. Gritting his teeth, Strahm pushed the two buttons simultaneously.

There was great pain, as two miniature rods pierced his hand. They drove into the space between the knuckles of his pointer and middle fingers, and Strahm felt his flesh tear obediently beneath the great power of the metal rods. He let out a terrible scream of agony, as he saw a tube fill up with his blood, situated on the bottom of the cage, and he watched his blood leak out the end of this tube and fill up a plastic cup with crazed eyes.

However, he found that when the rods pierced his skin, the bottom of the cage fell out, so the key clattered noisily to the ground. Upon this happening, the rods retracted from his hand. Strahm dived for the key, as Rigg continued to scream.

"HELP ME, PLEASE! PLEASE HELP ME!"

"I'VE GOT IT!" Strahm shouted. "IT'S OKAY, I'VE GOT THE KEY!" He ran to the giant mulcher, knowing he had only seconds left, found the place where the damn key was meant to go, and inserted it into the keyhole. He fell to the floor, not physically exhausted, but rather dizzy from the extensive blood loss. His head swam, and he was sure that he would pass out any moment.

Happily, he did not, and above him, the deadly whirring of the giant blades slowed, and then finally stopped. Strahm listened to Rigg's thankful cries for a few moments, and then stood up, the walls staying exactly where they should.

He moved to a place where he could see Rigg clearly. The man was on the platform, with no obvious way of getting down. Of course, that was if you ruled out jumping as a way of getting down.

"You're going to have to jump," Strahm called, his voice dry, raspy. Rigg stared at him with wide eyes.

"I'll break my neck!"

Strahm shrugged. "I don't see any other way you can get down."

Rigg swore, and positioned himself better on the platform, which creaked ominously. If he fell now, he would not be ripped apart, that was for certain, but he would still injure himself, perhaps severely. "I'm going to jump," he called down to the man below him. The man looked up again. His face was very pale.

"Okay," came the reply. Rigg braced himself, and then leapt off the platform. The ground flew towards him, and Rigg desperately tried to twist his body so that he'd land on his feet. He managed it, and, as the ground rushed to meet him, he bent his feet to absorb the impact.

It worked fairly well, but even so, there was pain. When Rigg tried to stand up again, he found that his ankle refused to cooperate. It would not hold up his weight, and it trembled viciously when Rigg tried to make it do so. "Shit," he cried in frustration.

The other man hurried over, cradling his injured arm like a woman might do with a newborn baby. "You okay?" he asked.

"Not really," Rigg grunted. The man flicked a nervous glance towards the clock on the wall. Then he did the strangest thing. He bent over and peered at the back of Rigg's neck. "Hey! What are you doing?"

The man moved away. "I'll come back for you, I promise," he whispered.

"You're leaving me here?"

"I'm sorry. But he has Lindsey. I need to save her." The man moved away, and left Daniel Rigg in the dark.

**XxX**

Strahm reached the other end of the room, and saw that he did not have to creep along a hallway, nor did he have to climb a ladder, for which he was thankful. All that stood before him was a mere set of stairs that descended into darkness. Strahm sighed and proceeded down the stairs, leaning against the wall for support. The walls were spinning very badly now. He hoped he would not pass out. Perez was counting on him.

As he stepped down in complete darkness, the air did not get colder, as he expected. Instead, it seemed to grow in warmth, until Strahm's shirt was not only soaked with blood now, but perspiration. He considered taking his shirt off, but he decided against the idea- there was no need to cause unnecessary pain to his already-mutilated arm.

Perhaps it was because Strahm was trying to fight off unconsciousness, but the descent down the stairwell seemed to last longer than it should have. When it at last levelled out, Strahm could not help the sigh of relief that escaped him.

There were no indicators splashed across the walls, but there needn't be; it was all too clear where Strahm had to go next. There was another door at the end of the very short hallway, and across it were the words:

FINAL TEST.

Strahm sucked in a deep breath, before he opened the door that would allow him to save Perez.

The air was even warmer in this room than it had been on the stairwell, and Strahm felt the pain above his left eye (previously forgotten in light of what had happened to his arm) make itself known again, and it pulsed angrily. Strahm grimaced and moved deeper into the room.

What he saw made him stop in his tracks.

Lindsey Perez was suspended by her arms in the middle of the room, her body bare. Though Strahm would have normally marvelled at such a beautiful sight, the horror of seeing his love hung up like that extinguished any sexual tension he might have had.

Though her legs were not bound, she could not use them to free herself; her wrists were crossed and cuffed together, in the same manner the first man had been. It looked very painful, and it was obvious that Perez had also struggled against her bindings- the sight invoked a kind of ache inside Strahm's chest, a kind of hollow feeling.

Two poles stood erect on either side of Perez, and numerous hoses were linked along them, pointed at various points of her body.

Near Perez, there was a wooden tale, with two objects upon it: a safe, taut and square, with a combination padlock attached to it, and a carving knife. Strahm regarded these objects momentarily, before turning his attention to the tape recorder, which sat beside the doorway, innocent enough looking.

Strahm snatched at it, dropped it, and picked it up again. He desperately wanted to know how to free Perez.

There was a moment of silence, and then:

"Hello, Agent Strahm. If you are hearing this, then the confrontation you have yearned for is finally upon you. Have you found out what you and the others have in common? This connection plays a key part in your partners' survival. The safe before you contains the key that will free Agent Perez, but make haste. She doesn't have much time left, Agent Strahm. Make your choice."

There was a deep rumbling sound, as unseen machinery whirred into life. Strahm rushed forward and tried to pry the cuffs from her. The only result that he got was a fingernail torn off. "FUCK!"

Panic flaring in his chest, he moved towards the safe and stared at it darkly. How the fuck was he supposed to open it? He didn't know the code.

Realization hit him then like a ton of bricks.

'_You all have something in common.' _

The numbers inked onto the back of Rigg and the dead man's necks! That was something that the two had in common.

'_The clue to their order can be found over the rainbow.' _

Of course! How did that damned song go? Red and yellow, and pink and green...

The dead man's number, one, had been tattooed in red ink. Rigg's number, nine, had been in yellow.

A startled laugh burst forth from Strahm's lips. He knew the code. He knew the fucking code. It was nineteen!

He bent over the safe, turning the combination lock hurriedly, when the hoses came to life. A black liquid spewed from their nozzles, hitting Perez's body. Strahm sniffed. He knew that smell, he'd know it anywhere.

Fucking HOT OIL was being sprayed all over his darling Perez. This caused her to wake from the clutches of unconsciousness, and she screamed in agony, as her skin blistered and puckered before her very eyes. Her frantic eyes sought out her love, and she appealed to him for aid. "Peter!" she cried, "Help me, please!"

"I'll save you, Lindsey, don't worry!" he shouted, jerking at the lock impatiently- why wouldn't it open?

Then he remembered. Combination padlocks had a THREE-number code, not two. THREE.

"_Fuck!" _

He then realized what the carving knife was for. The third number was on his own neck. The thought of tearing his flesh away sickened him, but he had to save Perez. She meant everything to him. He was not going to let her burn to death!

He picked up the knife, and then hesitated. How was he going to go about this? He didn't want to hack away at his neck- he might hit his spinal cord- he wanted to get the number and the flesh it was inked upon. He turned to Perez.

"Lindsey," he said, and, even though she was being sprayed with burning oil, she turned to look at him. "I need you to tell me where the number on the back of my neck is. I need the number so I can let you go."

She nodded. He turned around and placed the knife at his neck. "It's right there," she cried. "Oh, Jesus, it's right _there, _Peter!"

Strahm wasted no time. He drove the blade deep into his flesh, and it sliced through his flesh easily, tearing muscle and sinew, and he flicked the blade upwards, taking a whole flap of skin away. He let out a terrible scream as he did so, the hot air attacking the exposed muscle, making it sting horribly. He brought the fist containing the flap of skin to his face, and he saw the number three, in pink ink, tattooed across what used to be the back of his neck.

He heard Perez cry out in sympathy, but he dared not to look at her. That would undo him, undo what little of Peter Strahm there was left.

He turned the combination lock, and then, suddenly, wonderfully, the lock fell to the ground, the correct code being put in. Strahm wrenched the door of the safe open, and grabbed the key that lay there.

He staggered to Perez, and struggled to fit they key in the keyhole. When he got it, though, the hoses immediately fell passive, and Perez dropped to the floor. Strahm held out his uninjured arm and pulled her to her feet, nearly falling over himself. She was crying.

Strahm became aware of a wetness on his face, and he knew that he, too, was crying.

They held each other for a long time, saying nothing. They eventually returned for Daniel Rigg, and the three of them left the fortress behind.

They would still have the horrific memories, for many years to come, but they also had the satisfying knowledge that they had beaten the Jigsaw Killer.


	24. Game over

**October 2****nd,**** 1997- Game over.**

Tuesday at dawn, Mayfield trembled. Windows rattled in their frames. Patio wind chimes tinkled merrily even though there was no wind. In some houses, dishes fell off shelves.

At the start of the morning rush hour, an all-news radio used the small earthquake as its lead story. The tremor had registered 3.8 on the Richter Scale. By the end of the rush hour, the earthquake was demoted to third place behind a report of terrorist bombings in Rome and an account of a five-car accident on the freeway. After all, no buildings had fallen, and no-one had been killed.

The man in the sleek silver Ferrari didn't even feel the earth move. He was at the northwest edge of Mayfield, driving to work, when the quake struck. Because of the difficulty to feel anything but the strongest tremors while in a moving vehicle, Eric Matthews was not aware of the shaking until he arrived at the police station, and heard several people talking about it.

He was thirty-two years old, and it may have been silly to imagine such a thing, but he rather felt as though the earthquake was something of a bad omen.

The feeling intensified when Allison Kerry informed him that he would have to interview a pair of survivors who had escaped from a Jigsaw trap. Matthews sighed when he heard this, uncomfortable with the idea- he had never been good at interviewing people, and he was not so sure that he could do it today. However, he did not reject the proposal, so it was with some reluctance that the detective moved to the interrogation room, sucking in a deep breath before he did so.

When he opened the door, it took all of his self-restraint not to exclaim in either sympathy or disgust. The two people sitting before him were young, that much was obvious, but their faces were heavily clad in bandages. Matthews could see only the upper half of the young girl's face, and he could see nothing of the boy's face at all, except for his eyes, which were wide and bloodshot. Both of them had tubes inserted into their nostrils to aid their breathing, and the detective felt a surge of sympathy rush through him for these two children. That same sympathy was joined with a heavy feeling of disgust. Had the Jigsaw Killer no limits? He had already destroyed majority of the Mayfield police department, killed countless people, and now the bastard was going after _children!_

When he sat down opposite the two children, he cleared his throat and tried to act as though this were a normal interview. Because Kerry had told him so, Matthews did not need to ask the names of the two poor souls sitting before him, for which he was grateful. The children could not speak; in their hands, there lay a curious device that had the word 'Dynavox' printed across its base. Matthews guessed that the devices would speak for them. "Taylor, Blake, my name is Detective Matthews." He was unsure of what to say after this, but felt that he was doing an adequate job. The taller of the two children, Taylor, inclined her head slightly. "If you feel up to it, I'd like you to tell me what happened."

There was a brief pause, in which interviewer and interviewees stared at each other in uncomfortable silence. Then Taylor's hand began to move. It darted across the Dynavox with surprising speed, pressing buttons that Eric Matthews could not see.

"_I-remember-driving-with-Nan-and-Blake-to-stay-at-a-motel." _The 'voice' of the Dynavox was toneless, and spoke in a rather poor imitation of a girl's voice. Matthews could not remember feeling more sorry for anyone than he did for the girl sitting before him. He had seen photographs of the two before he had entered the interviewing room, and he had seen that the girl had been beautiful. The boy, too. Now they would never be beautiful again, their faces cruelly twisted and puckered permanently.

Matthews struggled to keep his voice neutral, as he was supposed to. It would do no good if he were to suddenly leap up and start screaming obscenities at the Jigsaw Killer and Amanda Young. He was a police officer. He needed to keep a cool head. "Why were you going to stay at a motel?"

Taylor's hands skittered across the Dynavox again. _"Because-Nan-was-afraid-of-the-bad-man." _

"The bad man?" Matthews asked, morbidly curious now, though he still had a sinking feeling in his stomach, when he had thought that the earthquake was a bad omen.

"_The-man-in-the-pig-mask-and-robes." _After a brief moment, in which Taylor sucked in a deep breath, she continued on: _"He-took-Blake-and-I-away-from-Nan-and-he-threatened-to-kill-us-if-Nan-didn't-follow-the-rules." _

Matthews didn't ask about what Taylor meant. He knew only too well. "What happened next?" he inquired, pulling out a notepad and pen. He clicked his pen once, and positioned it so that he would be able to jot down any important information these poor kids might happen to have.

When Taylor did not reply, Matthews realized that he had not phrased his question properly. He tried again: "What happened after you arrived at the hotel?"

Taylor glanced meaningfully at her brother, and Matthews rather felt as though the two were having a silent conversation, able to communicate using just their eyes. The boy's hand moved now, inching painfully along his own Dynavox, and Matthews felt like asking Taylor to reply instead, because the pain that the boy was going through was obviously of great magnitude. However, he did not, because he was a cop, and he had to do his job.

"_Nan-and-Taylor-went-to-rent-a-room," _the Dynavox slurred, in a painful imitation of a boy's voice. _"I-fell-asleep." _

Going off Matthew's nod, Blake continued on: _"I-remember-waking-up-and-seeing-a-person-wearing-a-pig-mask." _

"Was it the same person as before?"

"_No. This-one-was-slimmer-and-smaller." _

Matthews cursed inwardly. So the boy had been attacked by Amanda Young, unless the Jigsaw Killer had another female apprentice, which seemed unlikely, though it was a possibility that Matthews was not going to rule out completely until the murderer (and his apprentices, for that matter) were arrested.

"Do you remember anything after that?"

Blake moved his head an inch to the left, and then an inch to the right- a no, as best as he could manage.

Taylor, however, spoke up. She, in the toneless voice that the Dynavox provided, spoke of how she and her grandmother returned to the car and how they had thought that Blake had fallen asleep, and they entered the car. She spoke of how she remembered seeing nothing but a flash of crimson and black, and how she remembered her vision failing her, as unconsciousness claimed her.

Matthews repressed a shudder.

**XxX**

The abandoned box factory was dark.

The lawn surrounding the eerie-looking building was an unnatural shade of green. It appeared too bright, too cheerful, to be around a lair where manipulation and murderers festered.

Melanie got out of the stolen coffee-brown Mercedes that she had parked across the street from the lair. She walked across to the factory, after glancing around surreptitiously, making sure there were no witnesses about. Her shoes made unnaturally loud slapping noises on the stone footpath leading to the back entrance. She was not going to enter through the front door, of course not. Such an act would surely arouse suspicion; what woman would enter an abandoned box factory through the front door? Only an ex-employee. But even an ex-employee would not have the keys clutched tightly in one taut little hand, would she? No, of course not.

The air was mild. The heat of the vanished sun (which was presently behind a cluster of clouds), still rose from the earth , and the cooling sea wind that washed the basin town in all seasons had not yet brought the usual autumn chill to the air. Later, towards evening, it would be coat weather.

Crickets chirruped, unseen in the grass.

Melanie let herself into the factory, found the entranceway light, and flipped it on. When she closed the door, she found that the remnants of the FBI agents' trials had not yet been washed away; on the back of the door, in red, luminous paint, was a single word: FREEDOM. The way it had been written, merely splashed carelessly across the door, made it look as though it were written in blood.

The young apprentice let the corners of her mouth curl up in a slight smile, and then made her way to her room. She was about to sit down at her computer when she heard movement behind her and turned.

A man was standing in her doorway, dressed in dark slacks and a white long-sleeved shirt- and leather gloves. He stopped a few feet away from her and grinned broadly, his eyes remaining hard and cold.

Melanie wasn't quite sure how to respond to his sudden appearance. "Mark," she said uneasily.

"Hello, Melanie." His deep voice sounded slightly threatening. He took a step forward, his eyes glittering malevolently.

**XxX**

John sat in his wheelchair, his brow furrowed in concentration. There was much to think about, and there was very little time in which to do so. He now needed to keep his aspirator held to his mouth at all times.

Amanda sat passively by his side, and had done so since the sun had begun to show signs of rising. When John had suggested, rather half-heartedly, that she go and check on Melanie, his apprentice had merely raised an eyebrow and remained where she was. John was grateful; this would perhaps be the last time he would spend in her presence.

Neither of them spoke, because there seemed to be no need to do so. They merely sat side-by-side, and envisioned the end that would surely come for them.

**XxX**

The detective sitting opposite them scratched his chin with the tip of his pen, leaving a tiny smear of ink there. He had written quite a lot on that tiny notepad of his, and he looked very tired. Dark circles hung underneath his eyes, but, despite his apparent lethargy, he appeared morbidly enthralled in the account of two children who had escaped from a Jigsaw trap.

"What happened when the devices stopped moving?" he asked, and Blake let out a small whimper of pain. It was tiny, nearly inaudible, but Detective Matthews seemed to hear it. He was out of his chair in an instant. "Would you like me to fetch you some medical assistance?"

Taylor caught her brother's eye, and shook her head slightly. Blake's hand struggled to press the correct buttons on his Dynavox. _"No." _

"Are you sure?" Detective Matthews asked, obviously worried. He frowned.

"_Yes." _

The detective let out a long sigh. "All right." He sat back down. "So, care to tell me what happened when the devices stopped working?"

Taylor remembered quite clearly what had happened when the Head Crushers had ceased working, even though she had been (and still was) in a considerable amount of pain. The pain of having something foreign ripped out of your skin was still fresh in her mind, and she doubted that she would ever forget it.

She told the detective of how the two figures had entered the room. The larger one, obviously a man, had pulled the Head Crushers from their heads. She spoke of how, at one point, he had had to pull a large scrap of metal from her forehead, and she spoke in great detail how it felt to have a cold piece of metal pulled from your head, how it felt to have your own blood smeared all over yourself, and how it felt to be pulled from the chair you were sitting upon, and not being able to support your own weight and collapsing upon the floor.

Detective Matthews looked faintly nauseated. "What happened then? Can you remember?"

Taylor frowned, and a monstrous bolt of pain twisted across her forehead. Her mouth, though she knew that no-one could see it, turned down into a grimace. The medication that had been administered to her before she and her brother had arrived at the police station must have been wearing off, for she had felt no pain before, when she had first entered this fortress.

She saw that detective Matthews was looking at her with concern, and she tried to convey to him, using just her eyes, that she was just fine, and that she didn't need medical attention. It was a lie, of course, but she needed to inform this police officer everything she knew, and she had to do it soon.

With a considerable amount of effort, she raised her hand and made it skate across the Dynavox, willing her hand not to tremble and press the incorrect buttons- she could not afford to waste time. She did so slowly, deliberately, so she could be sure that no mistakes would be made.

Finally, thankfully, she was finished. _"Blake-and-I-waited-until-the-bad-people-were-gone-and-we-escaped-from-the-room." _

Detective Matthews seemed intrigued. Clicking his pen, he leant forward, staring at the two of them intently. Taylor rather felt as though his eyes were x-rays, piercing not just into their physical bodies, but into their very souls, the very essences of Taylor and Blake Skinner. It was not an uncomfortable feeling. "Tell me everything you remember," he pressed, sounding not impatient, but eager, and Taylor knew that she had to tell this man everything she knew, for it meant that the terrible people who had kidnapped her and her brother could be locked up. She desperately wanted this to happen; she could bear the thought of what had happened to her brother and herself happening to another person.

Taylor's hand hovered above the Dynavox, trembling visibly now, but she no longer cared. She could remember what had happened clearly, as if it had happened only hours before.

_She hauled her battered, broken body across the bitumen, feeling the gravel press into the soft flesh of her stomach. There was a monstrous bolt of pain, as she tried to speak, or scream. She couldn't. Even the mere effort of trying to speak made her so light-headed that she was sure that she would pass out at any second, and she couldn't do that. She had to get to a hospital. _

_She was on her stomach- she had insufficient strength to stand, as did her brother- and she adamantly ignored the ring of steadily approaching darkness that moved inward, from the edges of her vision. _

_She moved with greater speed now, clawing her way up the road, feeling her fingers scrape across the bitumen, tearing some of the flesh away, leaving the raw skin underneath to bear the grunt of the gravel. It seemed to sink into her flesh, and, soon enough, blood swelled to the surface. It dripped between her fingers and onto the road, her hands soon slick with her own blood. _

_She heard her brother collapse behind her, and she moved faster, her knees taking as much abuse as her fingers were. Aside from the pain of having her skin torn away, her head felt as though there was a great drum inside of it, and it boomed loudly and relentlessly, never stopping. Her mouth felt as though it were filled with toothpicks, and her stomach heaved at the thought, because she knew what was in her mouth, and she didn't want to think of that, oh no, she sure didn't. But she couldn't help it, couldn't help the fact that her mouth was filled with the shattered remains of her teeth- _

_Her blood-slicked hand touched something soft, gentle. She saw that she was touching grass, soft green grass, and she felt hope bloom in her once more. She dragged her body onto the patch of grass, and kept moving. There was a pang of guilt for leaving her brother behind, but that could not be helped- she barely had enough strength to keep moving- there was no possible way she could have hauled her brother along as well. _

_Grass clung to her bloodied hands, as she painstakingly inched her body forward. She could feel the angry glare of the sun beating down upon her back. She reached forward, and her hand connected with something smooth, cool. _

_It was a pole. Taylor gazed at it, the ring of darkness now closer than ever. As it threatened to take her in its loving embrace, she cast her gaze skyward, and saw that there was a sign atop the pole, and it read-_

"_Sea-Eagle-Road."_

"I beg your pardon?" Detective Matthews was confused; that much was obvious. He raised an eyebrow, and his piercing eyes concentrated solely on Taylor now. Underneath the bandages, Taylor felt her face flush, as she saw that her brother was staring inscrutably at her as well. 

It was some time before Taylor even thought to respond to her interviewer's urgent questions. It was all becoming clearer to her now. She and her brother had escaped from the trap, after being set free by the masked people, and they had crawled away from the fortress. When Blake had collapsed, Taylor had continued on, and she had seen a street sign, stating in bold script that the fortress from which they had escaped from was on 'SEA EAGLE ROAD.'

She knew where the current Jigsaw lair was. She could put them in prison, and no more people would have to die.

She could be a hero.

"Excuse me." Eric Matthews' voice was unintentionally sharp, and it was harsh to the young girl's ears. However, it served its purpose, and it was with some reluctance that Taylor jerked out of her reverie. She stared at the detective, and saw that although his face was laced with slight irritation, there was also concern present. He had stopped clicking his pen, and it lay passive in his right hand.

Taylor's hand skittered across the Dynavox with surprising speed. Thankfully, she made no mistakes, and, once her message had been typed accurately, she let the pieces fall into place:

"_When-I-was-escaping-from-the-bad-place-I-saw-what-street-it-was-on. That-street-was-Sea-Eagle-Road." _

Eric Matthews blinked.

**XxX**

Detective Fisk was sipping tentatively at a scalding cup of coffee when his co-worker, a man by the name of Eric Matthews, barrelled into the room, rudely knocking someone aside. Fisk regarded Matthews carefully, as the man approached him. He could see that Matthews was obviously flustered, and he wondered what could have gone wrong while interviewing two physically handicapped children. Had he lost his temper again? Fisk hoped not.

He now regarded his coffee with something close to loathing. Kerry had made it for him, and it was definitely not up to her usual standards; the first chance he got, Fisk was going to toss the entire thing into the trash.

Fisk was still gazing into the watery depths of his coffee when Matthews addressed him. "Fisk. The kids came up with something interesting after all."

Fisk looked up, and met Matthews' anxious gaze. "Oh?" he said, quite calmly, "What was it?"

Matthews ground his teeth- whether it was in frustration or anger, Fisk couldn't tell. And he had no intention of finding out, either.

"The girl, Taylor, she knows the street where the current Jigsaw lair may be."

Fisk's jaw dropped, and his cup of coffee fell to the floor. The scalding water stained the bottom of Fisk's dark slacks, but he took no notice. "What?"

Matthews grinned "We have Jigsaw cornered."

Fisk knew that while Eric Matthews was brutal and arrogant, he was not a stupid man, and Fisk trusted his word absolutely. He stood up. "Well, then, what are we waiting for? Let's snag this sick bastard once and for all."

**XxX**

Peter Strahm was in the middle of fixing a coffee for Perez when the phone rang. The noise blared shrilly, interrupting what had been a somewhat peaceful moment for the FBI agent. Letting out an annoyed sigh, he snatched at the phone, wishing he had disconnected the damn thing, and answered in a weary voice: "Hello?"

"Strahm!" The voice on the other end was anxious. Though Strahm was teetering on the edge of drowsiness, he recognized the voice. It was Fisk, one of the few (and fortunate) detectives who had not taken part in the raid of the funeral parlour. Strahm had met him only once, and he had seemed nice enough, but he was confused as to why the man would be calling him, at this hour. "Agent Strahm, this is detective Fisk from the Mayfield police department. I have some good news."

Good news? The words sounded odd and out of place to Strahm's ears, though he somehow knew that the words Fisk spoke were truthful.

"What is it?" he asked, curious. He heard Perez yawn delicately behind him, wrapped in the sheets of his bed. Since her injuries were somewhat more severe than his, he let her sleep in his bed, while he slept on the couch.

The two of them were taking refuge at Strahm's house while they recovered. Since their abduction at Saint Eustace Hospital, they no longer felt safe. They would linger at Strahm's home for a while longer, and then they would relocate elsewhere. If Jigsaw and his apprentices wanted to find them, it would only be too easy to search 'Strahm' or 'Perez' on the internet, and find their addresses from there.

Fisk seemed excited. "Detective Matthews was interviewing two survivors from a Jigsaw trap, and one of them knows the street that the current lair is on!"

The news was spectacular, Strahm couldn't deny that. However, he felt no enthusiasm at Fisk's words. He and Perez had both experienced enough of John Kramer's games for a lifetime. "That's great," he said, trying to sound enthused for Fisk, but he could not quite manage it.

"Yeah, it is. Listen, Strahm, would you be interested in joining us? We're going to raid the place in an hour or so."

Strahm sighed, and he knew that Perez was listening very carefully to his responses. The idea held no temptation for him, and he knew that it would hold none for Perez, either. Strahm chose his next words carefully before he spoke them.

"Sorry, Fisk, I can't do that. I've been...I've retired."

There was a long silence, as Fisk absorbed this new great heaping of information. The two were silent for so long that Perez, concerned, made her way into Strahm's kitchen, and stared at him with wide eyes. Retirement had been an idea that the two of them had been toying with since their escape from the cardboard box factory, but this was the first time that either one of them had said it aloud, made it official. Strahm smiled reassuringly at Perez, and she smiled back, the concern on her face melting away.

"...I don't understand," Fisk said at last.

Strahm sighed again. "I'm sorry, Fisk. But I've had enough."

There was another uncomfortable silence before Fisk spoke again. His voice was brisk, formal, and Strahm suspected that he spoke this way to prevent any emotion from seeping in and making him seem unprofessional. "If that's what you want, then I won't begrudge you, Strahm. I'm sorry you won't be here with us."

"Good luck," Strahm said, and then he hung up without another word. He turned to Perez, held his uninjured arm out to her, and, when she moved into his awkward embrace, he kissed the corner of her mouth, finally at peace with himself.

**XxX**

There had been some debate as to what to do with Taylor and Blake Skinner, but, even as Fisk snapped his cellular phone with a snap and approached Matthews and Kerry, it appeared as though it had been quickly resolved.

Because Taylor was the only one who knew which building served as the lair on Sea Eagle Road, she and her brother were to escort the authorities and direct them to the place from which they had escaped. There was every chance that the place was not the Jigsaw Killer's lair- he was notorious for using a variety of different places for his victims to suffer- but Fisk somehow _knew _that this was it. The big one.

Anticipation gnawed at Fisk's gut, and he knew that the others surrounding him felt the same. He, Matthews and Kerry had managed to contact the police department in the next closest town and convinced them to join them in the raid. Fisk had had to contact another department, because the numbers in his own were so few. There was Eric Matthews, Allison Kerry, Mark Hoffman (although Fisk hadn't been able to contact him), and Fisk himself.

The number had risen from three to forty. The department in the next county had been kind enough to contact their equivalent to a SWAT team. To Fisk's surprise, there were no FBI agents present. He guessed that they had simply given up on the case once Peter Strahm had retired- he had been, after all, one of their best. He would be quite a loss to the FBI.

When the additions arrived, (twenty minutes late, Fisk thought scathingly) there was an uncomfortable silence, before the commander of the SWAT team came forward. He was a huge man, easily twice the size of Daniel Rigg (who was also absent), but he had none of Rigg's kindness. Though Fisk had only just met the man, he felt as though the man had a bloodthirsty and brutal nature; he felt nervous just being in the man's presence.

The commander spoke with a slight sneer, as he saw the numbers of the Mayfield police department. "So this is how many of you are left," he hissed. "I expected less."

Fisk did not quite know what to say to that. It was clear that the commander was a horrid piece of work, but they needed his help. If they said anything to provoke him, then they could pretty much kiss any opportunity to snare Jigsaw and Amanda Young goodbye.

It was Kerry who stepped forward and met the commander's challenge. "Thank you all for coming," she said, pleasantly enough. "I am detective Allison Kerry, and these are my co-workers, detective Eric Matthews, and detective Fisk." The other officers, the ones from Water Cove, did not introduce themselves, although that might have been because there were simply too many to introduce individually. Unnerved, Kerry continued on: "I trust you are all familiar with John Kramer, also known as the Jigsaw Killer. He has murdered many people in Mayfield, and we believe that we now have Kramer and his apprentice, Amanda Young, cornered. You see, we have two adolescents who managed to escape from Kramer's lair. One of them knows the location of what may possibly be Kramer's current lair." A few of the soldiers mumbled to each other, some of them fingering their weapons, undoubtedly imagining what it would be like to pour bullets into two murderous vigilantes.

The commander sneered. "And how do we know that we can trust the word of a mute sixteen year-old?"

Beside Fisk, Matthews bristled angrily, and Fisk could see that the man was tensing himself for a fight. He caught his co-worker's eye, and shot him a warning look. Matthews sighed and nodded curtly. Kerry stepped forward once again. "The fact that she knows the street name should be sufficient enough."

The commander could not argue with that. He scowled and moved back to his squadron of soldiers. With the amount of shouting he was doing, it was clear that he was venting his frustrations at the unfortunate soldiers. Fisk was only glad that he was not venting his frustrations on what was left of the Mayfield police department.

There was very little conversation after that. The SWAT team and the police department of Water Cove seemed to accept Kerry's story, with only a few (including the commander) that obviously did not believe.

As Fisk entered his black Mercedes, with Matthews and Kerry assisting Taylor and Blake Skinner into the car (Taylor was going to sit in front with Fisk, while Blake was in the back), and then climbing somewhat awkwardly into the backseat, he was surprised at the surge of anger he felt rush through him. It was not for the asshole SWAT commander- it was directed at Peter Strahm. Why had he retired, and with such little notice? There had to be a plausible reason, because Peter Strahm had struck him as the kind of person who never missed an opportunity to push forward in the investigation of John Kramer and Amanda Young. He was a man under iron control, or so it had seemed.

However, he told himself angrily, now was not the time to worry about Peter Strahm- he had to concentrate on Taylor's instructions, when they neared the place.

On he drove.

**XxX**

Melanie heard a furtive, rustling noise in the darkness of her room. She stiffened, thinking that it might be Hoffman again, and listened attentively.

She had been in the middle of scouring the newspaper article that Angelina had gestured to the day before. It spoke of her death and how her brother, Mark, had suffered a kind of breakdown following her funeral.

Melanie then realized that the sound was nothing but the wind whispering through her partially-open window. She relaxed.

"_Attention! This is the American Federal Police!" _

Melanie froze. The voice was male, and electronically magnified. It was the voice of a police officer.

They had found them.

"_Shit!" _

Frightened, Melanie felt around in the deep pockets of her robes. She had a small silver pistol, but it wasn't enough. Not enough to defend herself against the police with.

Fear constricted around her chest, making it very difficult to for her breathe properly, Melanie found the hood on her robe and jerked it up. It fell over her eyes, which was good- for the moment. She wished that she had a pig mask on hand, but the hood would simply have to do.

Somewhere nearby, Hoffman swore loudly. He barrelled past Melanie's open door, undoubtedly moving to where John and Amanda were. He was frightened. He needed instructions as to what to do.

Her chest heaving, Melanie snatched at the newspaper article and shoved it deep within her pocket, alongside her pistol. She glanced through her window, and she saw that the police had the entire front of the factory surrounded. There were too many for her and the others to fight. Melanie sucked in a deep breath, trying desperately to control the frightened emotions that were threatening to burst out of her. She wanted to scream in the terror that was awaiting her, but she couldn't do that. She had to keep a clear head.

She then hurried after Hoffman.

**XxX**

John did not look surprised or frightened when Melanie saw him. He simply sat in his wheelchair, his face smooth, perfectly calm. Melanie did not understand how he could not be even the slightest bit frightened. The police were at his DOOR, for Christs' sake! Yet he seemed to take no notice.

Was this perhaps his way of giving up? Had he realized that there was no way out? The thought made Melanie feel cold all over, as though she had stepped into a shower of freezing water. The breath caught in her throat, and her heartbeat soared, as she realized that Amanda seemed to have given up as well. Was there no willpower anymore?

"What's going on?" Hoffman demanded. It was some time before John answered his apprentice, as the hacking coughs returned, and the pain in his aged, frail body grew so intense that he had insufficient strength to even hold the aspirator to his mouth. Amanda did it for him.

As John slowly recovered from his coughing attack, Melanie watched Hoffman carefully. His hands were balled into tight fists at his sides, and his eyes were furious- the eyes of a killer. Not a healer, like John. A _killer_. He ground his teeth angrily, as the police, undaunted by the lack of response from John or any of his apprentices, began to bellow once again:

"_If there is anyone in the factory, will you come out and show yourself!" _

Finally, just as the police were beginning to converge on the building, John lowered his aspirator. He fixed his watery eyes on all three of his apprentices, his expression unreadable. "Flee," was all he said. Hoffman needed no more encouragement; in a matter of seconds, he was hurrying down the same hallway he had ventured through not two minutes before. Melanie knew that he was going to exit through the back entrance, and she also knew that he would be able to evade the authorities.

Amanda clung to him tightly, and she shook her head. John's expression became stern. _"Flee," _he ordered.

"No!"

"Amanda, you must flee if you are to continue my work-"

"_No!_ I won't leave you!" She was crying now, the tears snaking down her face with a terrible grace.

Melanie gripped the other woman's shoulder. "Amanda, we _have to move," _she said, as gently as she could. "The police-"

"Fuck the police!" Amanda screamed, breaking free of Melanie's grip. "I'm not leaving him alone!"

There was a crash, as the authorities began to break the door down. _"There is no way out!" _Someone bellowed, and Melanie heard the door crash open, and she heard the footfalls of SWAT soldiers steadily approaching.

She caught John's eye, and he nodded once. That was what Melanie needed. John did not think that she was abandoning him. He knew that this was the only way for his work to continue on.

Melanie ran.

**XxX**

A startled laugh burst forth from Melanie's lips, as the door that the FBI agent and his two friends had used to escape came into view. It was ironic that she now had to use the door to escape, and obtain her freedom.

Behind her, she could hear the authorities shouting at John and Amanda, screaming that they put their hands in the air.

Melanie pushed the door open, and she was abruptly bathed in sunlight. She took no notice of the sudden warmth and continued to run. The authorities had the front part of the factory surrounded, yet they had evidently not thought of the possibility of covering the rear of the building, which had little cover. Melanie could see Hoffman in the distance, a massive form moving at a great pace. If anyone were to see him, they would instantly know that he was a shady character, simply because of the way he was dressed. He was not dressed in the same curious attire Melanie was, but he was certainly dressed in such a way that would arouse suspicion.

With no other choice, Melanie followed the great hulking man, moving with haste to catch up to him.

**XxX**

When she did eventually catch up to him, she saw that he was not even the slightest bit out of breath, as she was. He kept moving at a brisk pace. She hurried to keep pace with him, sweat sliding down her face. She wiped it away, irritated.

Hoffman halted abruptly, and he looked out towards the building from which they had just escaped. His lips curled into a sneer, and he watched the police swarm around the building. He was silent for a very long time, long enough for Melanie to begin to feel uncomfortable. "Mark?" she whispered.

He turned towards her. Flexed his big hands. His knuckles strained at the snug-fitting leather.

Melanie took a step back, more frightened now than she had ever been in her entire life.

This was not the same Mark Hoffman she had talked to, when they had planned Sarah Skinner's death. There had been not even the slightest hint of the madness that now contorted his broad, sweat-greased face. His eyes were blue chips of ice, and the frigid passion that shone in them was surely too monstrous to have been concealed when she first met him.

Then she saw the knife, and the sight of it was like a blast of furnace heat that turned her doubts to steam and blew them away. He meant to kill her. The knife was fixed to his belt, over his right hip, and she wondered how she could have missed it before. It was in an open sheath, and he could free it simply by popping open the metal snap on a single narrow leather strap. In one second, the blade could be slipped from the holder and wrapped tightly in his fist; in two seconds, it could be jammed deep into her soft belly, slicing through warm meat and jelly organs, letting loose the precious tore of blood.

"I've wanted you since I first saw you," Hoffman said. "Just wanted to get at you."

Time seemed to stop for Melanie. This man had used her, made her vulnerable, and now he wanted to kill her.

Seeing her expression, Hoffman laughed. It was a threatening yet playful sound, and it chilled Melanie to the bone. "Yes, you're going to be a good little piece," he said. "Real good. John and Amanda can't save you now."

Abruptly, the world was like a slow-motion movie. Each second seemed like a minute. She watched him approach as if he were a creature in a nightmare, as if the atmosphere had suddenly become as thick as syrup.

The instant that Melanie saw the knife, she froze. She stopped backing away from him, even though he continued to approach.

Hoffman was upon her. He placed one large hand around her neck, and squeezed roughly.

That terrible contact broke her out of the trance into which she had fallen. She let out a strangled gasp, twisted out of his grasp, and ran.

Hoffman laughed again. It was disconcertingly pleasant, but his hard eyes glittered with a macabre amusement. It was a demon joke, the mad humour of hell. He was taunting her. He wanted her to fight back, for he enjoyed the chase.

"Get away!" she shouted. "Get _away!" _

"Don't want to get away," Hoffman said, smiling, shaking his head, "I want to get _closer. _Much, much _closer." _

For a moment, the fear that made her legs rubbery and turned her insides to water was supplanted by more powerful emotions: hate, anger, fury. Hers was neither reasoned nor intellectual, but more primitive. She bared her teeth at him, growled in the back of her throat; she was reduced to an almost unconscious animal response as she faced him and looked for a way out of the trap.

Then she remembered the silver pistol in her pocket.

Melanie reached into the pocket of her robe, and drew out her pistol. She pointed the firearm at him, holding it firmly with both hands.

He kept coming.

"I'll shoot! I swear to God I will!" she said frantically. Hoffman stopped, blinked, seemed to notice the gun for the first time. "Away," Melanie ordered.

He didn't move.

"Get the hell away from me!"

Incredibly, he took one more step toward her. He was no longer the smug, calculating, game-playing man she had faced before. Something had happened to him; deep inside, relay switches had clicked into place, setting up new patterns in his mind, new wants and needs and hungers that were more disgusting than any he had revealed thus far. His demeanour was that of a lunatic. His eyes flashed, not icy as they had been, but watery and hot, fevered. Sweat streamed down his face. His lips worked ceaselessly, even though he was not speaking; they writhed and twisted, pulled back over his teeth, then pushed back in a childish pout, formed a sneer, then a weird little smile, then a fierce scowl, and then an expression for which there was no name. He was no longer driven by lust or the need to utterly dominate her. The secret motor that drove him now was much darker in design than the one that had powered him just a few moments ago, and she had the terrible feeling that it would somehow provide him with enough energy to shield him from harm, to let him advance untouched through a hail of bullets.

He took the large knife from the sheath on his right hip and thrust it in front of him.

"Back off," Melanie said desperately.

"Bitch."

"I mean it."

He started toward her again.

"Jesus, Mark, that knife's no good against a gun!"

He took another step, so completely disassociated with reality, so thoroughly possessed by his madness, that he obviously did not know that he could die in a matter of seconds. Perhaps it did not matter to him.

Melanie squeezed off a shot, firing at him as he loomed directly in front of her like a demon creeping out from a crack from hell.

The sound of the shot was loud, and it hurt her ears.

She saw the knife arc out of Hoffman's right hand. The sharp steel flew up and back, sparkling for a moment in the sunshine that seemed too cheerful for the present situation. It came to rest some feet away, too far for Hoffman to retrieve without receiving several bullets.

Hoffman howled as the knife spun away from him. He cradled his right hand in his left.

Melanie didn't think she had hit him. There was no blood. The bullet must have struck the knife, ripping it from Hoffman's grasp. The shock would have stung his fingers worse than the crack of a whip.

Hoffman wailed in pain, screamed in rage. It was a wild sound.

Melanie fired again, and he went down and _stayed _down.

With a small whimper of relief, Melanie sagged towards the ground, not taking her eyes off the place where Mark Hoffman now lay.

There was no sound.

There was no movement.

She was uneasy. She could not believe that he had gone down so easily. Without relaxing her hold on her firearm, she approached him.

He was belly-down on the ground. His right arm was tucked underneath him. His left was flung out in front, the hand curled slightly. His face was turned away from her. She could not see any blood, but that did not mean that she had not gotten him. If she had shot him in the forehead, bringing instant death, then there would be next to no blood.

She watched him for a minute, two minutes. She could not detect any movement, not even the subtle rise and fall of his breathing.

Was he dead, then?

"Mark?"

Melanie did not intend to get too close. She wasn't going to endanger herself, but she did want a better look at him. She kept the gun trained on him, ready to put another round into him if he moved.

"Mark?"

Funny that she should keep calling him 'Mark.' After what had happened today, after what he had tried to do to her, she was still speaking to him as though they were friends. Perhaps it was because he was dead. In death, even the very worst man in town was accorded hushed respect even by those who knew that he was a liar and a scoundrel all his life. Because of the inevitable fact that everyone would die at some point, belittling a dead person was in a way like belittling yourself.

Melanie waited and watched as another minute dragged past. "You know what, Mark? Maybe I'll put another round right in the back of your head, just to be sure that you _are _dead." She fired a round into the sky.

He didn't flinch.

Melanie sighed and lowered her weapon.

Dead. He was dead.

She'd killed him.

Suddenly, he was not dead anymore.

Suddenly, he was very much alive and moving. He had anticipated her. He had known that she was trying to trick him. He had seen through the ruse, and he'd had nerves of steel. He hadn't even flinched!

Now he used the arm underneath him to push up and forward, striking at Melanie as if he were a snake, and with his left hand, he seized her ankle and brought her down, knocking the gun out of her hand, screaming and flailing, and they rolled over, a tangle of arms and legs, then over again, and his teeth were at her throat, and she had the crazy fear that he was going to tear out her throat. She got a hand between them, got her palm under his chin and levered his head away from her neck as they rolled one last time, and then he was trying to suffocate her now, his hands curling around her neck-

Melanie's fingers touched the handle of the knife that Hoffman had been wielding earlier. She reached towards it frantically, desperately, as Hoffman's grip tightened. Melanie's breath caught in her throat. Her chest burned. Her vision wavered.

She was aware that Hoffman was calling her a bitch and a slut, and that he was giggling, giggling as he strangled her. He had no fear now.

He was not prepared for the return of his knife. Melanie jammed it deep into his flat, hard-muscled belly.

**XxX**

_The bitch! The rotten bitch! _

Hoffman slipped one hand underneath his white shirt and gripped the gut puncture. He squeezed the lips of the cut together as best he could, in an attempt to stop the life from flowing out of him. He felt the warm blood soaking through the stitching of the gloves, onto his fingers.

He was suffering very little pain. A dull burning in his stomach. An electric tingle along his left side. A mild rhythmic twinge timed to his heartbeat. That was the extent of it.

Nevertheless, he knew that he was badly hurt and it was getting worse by the second.

Melanie seemed to know it as well- the rotten bitch! She stood over him now, revelling in his pain. It infuriated him. Hoffman wanted to grab her, beat her viciously, but he was pathetically weak. His great strength had gushed out of him suddenly and completely.

Something loosened inside of him. Like a spring popping. And a bag of water bursting. He screamed in pain, and he saw that his blood was running down his slacks to his shoes, and it was pooling into a puddle on the ground.

**XxX**

Melanie stared down at Mark Hoffman, without the slightest hint of regret or horror on her pretty face. He stared back at her, his face contorted in pain, the puddle of blood underneath him growing in size by the second. He was dying; of this Melanie was absolutely certain.

She was not sure what she should do now. Should she wait for him to die? Should she just walk away?

As she pondered her decision, realization soon hit her like a ton of bricks.

'_I have something for you.'_

Melanie reached into her pocket, found the package that John had given to her.

'_When the time is right, you'll know what to do.'_

It seemed like that time was now. Never had Melanie felt more certain about anything in her life. She pulled the package out of her deep pocket, and tore the top of it away. She reached into the package, felt around for the mysterious object that lay within its depths.

Hoffman's eyes were wide as he watched her do so.

Smiling grimly, Melanie brought her hand out of the bag. Inside her hand was an object, an object that the two of them knew very well- a tape recorder.

Melanie waited a moment before one of her perfectly manicured fingers hit the 'play' button. There was another moment of silence, before the voice that the two of them knew so well issued forth from the player:

"_Hello, Mark. If you're hearing this, then it's time to collect. You thought you had control, didn't you? You thought your actions would go unnoticed. Do you like how brutality feels, Mark? That same brutality that you have unleashed unto others is now unto you. Now the blood that has been forcibly taken will be repaid. There are two ways to repay the price of taking a life away, and the first you have unjustly rejected. So, the second is the only alternative left you now. I saw potential in you. I took you in. I wanted you to eventually succeed me in my work, but you couldn't. You dismissed my way. You broke the rules. And you have failed your final test, detective." _

Hoffman's eyes went, if possible, even wider. "No," he said, and it was not so much as a denial than it was a plea, "No, you can't fucking do this to me."

Melanie smiled, and held the tape recorder up, as if she meant to throw it at him. "Game over."

"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING? _NO! YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME, YOU FUCKING BITCH! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU! YOU BITCH!" _

Ignoring his screams, Melanie tossed the tape recorder onto Hoffman's chest. She turned her back on him, and saw, out of the corner of her eye, Angelina Hoffman. The spirit was hovering over to Melanie's left, and, as the apprentice caught the spirit's eye, the two of them smiled at each other.

Then Melanie walked on, on to continue John's legacy.


	25. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The sun was hot and fierce, and it beat down upon the corpse of Mark Hoffman, former detective and Jigsaw apprentice. The body lay sprawled awkwardly in the middle of the street, the blood from his wound already drying.

Though the body was in the middle of the street, it was well-hidden from prying eyes- the eyes of the police who now had both John Kramer and Amanda Young under arrest. If one had listened hard enough, they would have heard people cheering in the distance, as it was announced that John Kramer and his notorious apprentice were now imprisoned.

The sound disappeared with the coming of a soft breeze. The long-sleeved white shirt that the corpse was entangled in fluttered slightly. Had anyone stumbled upon the body of Mark Hoffman, they would have been shocked that his muscle-packed arms, his powerful back, and his hard, rippled belly had all failed him.

The tape recorder that Melanie Dwyer had once played for Hoffman lay passive on his chest, still playing. Several birds arced overhead, attracted by the smell of dead flesh. They circled down lower, drawing closer to the body. One was so brave as to even land but a few feet from the body, its' beady eyes glowing with hunger. It watched the tape recorder carefully, as it had never seen such an object before, and it was wary.

As it watched, the object suddenly began to move. It rose and fell with the steady movement of Mark Hoffman's chest, as air was sucked in and then brutally expelled.

The bird let out a squawk of alarm, as the eyes of the seemingly dead man opened. The eyes behind the lids were a piercing shade of blue, and they were cold- like ice.

Hoffman sat up, and the tape recorder fell off of his chest with a clatter. One hand lay passive by his side; it was white and waxy-looking from the extensive blood loss, and it hung off of his wrist like a dead thing. The other hand clutched at what remained of his belly. There was no more blood now, but the pain was great.

The bitch thought she had gotten him, thought she had killed Mark Hoffman, but she was wrong. Hoffman was very much alive, and, as he imagined numerous ways in which to kill Melanie Dwyer, his mouth curved into a smile.

"_Bitch," _he said.


End file.
